Vokunkiir
by skyflower51
Summary: Melyna is a Dunmer. So she can't help but find it strange that her family are Khajiit. Skyrim's Thieves Guild may hold the answers to her questions about her past, but she'd love to know why the Guildmaster hates her so much, and why the senior members give her such strange looks. And she's a little worried that if she uncovers the truth about who she is, she'll wish she hadn't.
1. Prologue

VOKUNKIIR

* * *

PROLOGUE

Here is everything that, at the age of eight, I knew about myself.

My name was M'lina. I was short for my age, short enough for it to be an annoyance. I had an uncanny talent for removing items from people's pockets without their noticing, and I was becoming a darned good shot with a bow. I loved venison, and I hated cabbage. I had dark brown hair, red eyes, and grey skin. And I was a Dunmer.

Here is everything that, at the age of eight, I knew about my mother.

Her name was Ahkari. She had dark grey fur, very pale grey eyes, and a tail. She was the one who taught me how to remove items from pockets – as well as how to distract others while she did the same. Both her hands and her mind were quick, and both her wits and her talons were always sharp. And she was a Khajiit.

If you're noticing a slight issue here, then yes, I'd spotted it too.

I'm a smart enough woman. Nowadays, I can see I get it from my father. But I didn't really need to be bright. It doesn't take a whole load of brains to work out that Khajiit don't have Dunmer babies. Even back then, I knew that half-bloods almost always take on the mother's species. If I were truly Ahkari's daughter, then even if my father had been a Dunmer, I should have been born a Khajiit.

It wasn't, exactly, that it took me until I was eight to realise that it was unlikely that Ahkari was my actual mother. I know I was a kid, but I wasn't blind, or an idiot. I think the world 'adopted' popped into my mind rather sooner than that. But when you're dealing with the person who sang you Ta'agra lullabies when you were small enough for them to cradle in their lap, who showed you off to any customers as, 'my daughter, M'lina,' as if there were nothing in the world she was prouder of, who you'd spent your whole life calling _fado…_ it's hard to go up to them and say, 'Look, I know you're not my real mother.'

So, there it was, for eight years, the mammoth in the tent. A huge lumbering thing that no one spoke about. And we traipsed across Skyrim together, as Khajiit (and Khajiit plus one Dunmer) caravans do, between Dawnstar and Windhelm and Winterhold. Never Riften. I overheard Dro'marash saying, once, how he missed travelling there, but when I asked him why the caravan didn't visit that city any more he gave a nervous laugh and said something about having a promise to keep. And yes, I did point out that that was hardly a satisfying answer, but he deflected very smoothly by giving me a sweetroll.

I learned a lot from them. Ahkari, Dro'marash and Qa'shando knew Skyrim well, and more importantly, they knew how to live there. All three knew how to manage coin and sway a trade in their favour, and soon, so did I. Dro'marash's honeyed words could convince someone that the Thalmor were Talos worshippers if they listened long enough, and it wasn't long before mine could too. Qa'shando, the caravan guard, knew how to handle a blade and a bow. When I was four, I was already toddling around the camp swinging a wooden sword, and before long, I progressed to a dagger. By the time I was eight, I was already getting the hang of firing an arrow. Learning both weapons seemed to come naturally to me. 'Natural talent,' Qa'shando chuckled, the first time I hit a bullseye.

' _Thjiz,_ Qa'shando,' Ahkari snorted. 'There is no such thing. She may have inherited swift reflexes and a keen eye, but that is all.'

And that was what made me decide I had to ask. Because if I had inherited those things, who had I got them from? It could not be Ahkari, because while I happily called her my mother and loved her as one, the simple fact was that she had not given birth to me.

So I did it, in the end. Years later, I would learn that my father had passed on something else to me: an inquisitive mind. And so I went up to Ahkari one evening, after we had pitched camp and had seated ourselves around the fire, ready to begin the meal. I made sure the others could see and hear – that way, Ahkari might be less able to back out of the conversation – and drew myself up to my full, unimpressive height.

'Ahkari,' I said, 'Who are this one's parents?'

I said _this one,_ of course, because I spoke in Ta'agra. The people around me spoke Ta'agra, so I did too – I was fluent in the common tongue, since any trader had to learn how to speak to strangers, but why should I use it around my family? Even now, after all the efforts I've made to sound like any ordinary Dunmer, I still find an edge of a Khajiit accent creeping into my voice when I'm angry. It's satisfying, actually, being able to growl your Rs and hiss your Ss. Gives you a bit of a threatening factor.

And Ahkari looked threatened, I can tell you that. Threatened and sad.

'Why, M'lina,' she said, her voice calm, but her eyes anything but. 'This one is your mother. We are your family. What else is there to know?'

I placed my hands on my hips. ' _Fado,_ this one has listened to the customers talking and she has read books, and she knows that Khajiit do not have Dunmer babies.'

Ahkari hesitated, and I could see a new excuse, another way to avoid the question, springing to her lips. But Qa'shando spoke before she could utter it.

'Tell her, Ahkari. She has the right to know.'

Dro'marash let out a laugh. 'And you know she will keep nagging all of us about it unless she is told.'

I looked at Ahkari, and the pain on that familiar furred face was so clear it made a twinge of guilt steal through me. She had raised me, blood relation or not. She was my mother, no matter who had given birth to me. And I was making her feel like that was unimportant.

'You _are_ M'lina's mother,' I told her. 'But this one still wants to know…'

'She wants to know who she is,' Qa'shando said firmly. 'And she must.'

Ahkari sighed and tapped the log she was seated on, indicating for me to come and sit beside her. I did so, and she wrapped one arm around my shoulders.

'Dear M'lina,' she murmured, as I huddled close to the warmth of her body. 'Know that while I do not share your blood, I have always cared for you as if you were my own. You are as a daughter to me. I told myself I did not tell you what I knew of your past because you were too young to understand, but now… now I think it was because I did not want you to think of anybody but me as your mother.'

'I won't,' I told her, and then, it was the truth. I didn't know then what I know now.

She held me a little tighter, closed her eyes for a moment, and started to speak, her voice low and her expression distant. 'Eight years ago, on a night that was bitter even for the Pale in midwinter, the three of us made our camp in the wilderness. Night was drawing in, and we were far from any settlements. Wolves were howling. It was the last night on which we would expect to see any living soul happen upon us. But one did.'

I glanced at Dro'marash and Qa'shando, and saw that they were both nodding, their faces lined with thought. I knew that whatever memory was replaying in Ahkari's mind was in theirs as well.

'She came out of nowhere, like a ghost from the snow. A Dunmer woman, gaunt and thin, her clothes torn and her eyes… haunted. And she was carrying you, M'lina, holding you in her arms, wrapped in furs to protect you from the cold.'

Dro'marash was nodding. 'She must have seen our fire. She stood there, staring, and all she said was, 'Please, help us.''

I listened, eyes wide. So this was my mother, this stranger. But how had I ended up alone with the caravan?

'We did what we could for her, of course,' Ahkari continued. 'It wasn't a night to leave anyone in the blizzard without a friend, stranger or no, especially a young mother with a child who could not be more than a few weeks old. She was starved, I could see that, but the first thing she did was to take you closer to the fire and make sure you were warm. When you cried, she calmed you, and only when you slept did she even look at the food we offered her.'

'And when she did, she ate like a wolf that hadn't been fed in a month,' Qa'shando added.

'So who was she?' I demanded, tugging at Ahkari's sleeve.

'She would not say,' my foster mother replied, giving a small shake of her head. 'We asked her name and she would not give it. We asked where she was going and if she would care for company, but she would neither tell us nor accept our offer. All she asked was that we gave her and her child a safe haven for the night. And so we gave her that. We gave it to you both.'

She clasped her hands together, watched the dancing of the flames in the campfire for a few seconds, then carried on. 'When morning came, she spoke to us. She said… she could not care for her daughter as she should. There were people hunting her, she told us, and she had to live alone in the wilderness. 'If they catch me,' she said, 'they will kill me, and even if they don't kill my daughter, there'll be no one left for her. And even if they never find me, I can't give her any kind of life. I can barely even keep her alive. She deserves more.''

I was already beginning to work out what had happened next, so I was unsurprised when Ahkari's next words were, 'She asked us to take you with us, to care for you, to keep you safe. And we found we could not refuse. She was so frightened, and you were so small. We said we would take you in and try our best to raise you well. 'Apart from that, I have only three requests,' your mother told us. 'First, never take her near Riften. Second, make sure she knows I love her and that I never wanted to leave her – that it's because I love her that I have to leave her. And third, call her M'lina. Her name is M'lina.'

'You're not saying it right, Ahkari, you never did.' Qa'shando was shaking his head. 'It was some Dunmer name, this one does not think he can remember what it was. But M'lina is what we called you, since it was easiest. Besides, you are one of us, no? A Khajiit in thought and mind, if not in body. You should bear a Khajiit name.'

All my life, I had founds myself agreeing with my three companions, my family. I had never doubted them. But suddenly, I found I did. I did not agree with Qa'shando. The name that he and Ahkari and Dro'marash could not pronounce was the name that my mother had given me. It was my true name. Not a Khajiit name, but a Dunmer name.

And for the first time in my life, I felt like a Dunmer. I looked at these three beloved, furry faces and realised that though they were my family, I was not one of them. I was an elf. They were beastfolk. No matter how much we cared for each other, the strange woman who had given me to them was my kin, and they were not.

I breathed in deeply, and tried to wrap my bemused eight-year-old mind around the concept.

'What did she look like?' I asked.

'Like you,' Ahkari said. 'This one can tell, though you are young and my memories of her are dim, that your face shall be like hers. Her skin was the same shade of grey, and you are lightly-built, as she was. She had your brown hair, though yours is darker. Your eyes, though…' Her voice trailed off.

'This one's eyes?' I pressed her.

'Are not how hers were,' Dro'marash finished. 'Her eyes were… not like those of any other Dunmer that Dro'marash has seen.'

I really don't like to be given vague answers. 'How?'

'Their colour,' Qa'shando said. 'They were not red. They were… purple.'

'Indigo,' Ahkari said, and when Qa'shando shot her a bemused look, shrugged and added, 'This one has sold dyed cloths since she was as tall as M'lina. She has learned to be very specific on the naming of colours. That shade of dark bluish-purple is indigo.'

Dro'marash rolled his eyes and muttered something about pedantry.

'That's not normal, is it?' I asked, ignoring him. 'Dunmer – they have red eyes.' I stopped, thought about what I'd said, and corrected myself. ' _We_ have red eyes.'

I received nothing but a series of shrugs in response.

'That is all we can tell you, M'lina,' Dro'marash said quietly. 'The next morning, your mother said farewell to you, and left. We could see that it broke her heart to leave, but leave she did. Never again have we seen her in eight years, though we have always kept to her requests. It is a lucrative trading route, yet still, we do not go near Riften. We call you by the name she gave – or as near to it as we can. As for her second request… well, you know now what she wished for you to know.'

I bit my lip. Her second request was that I be told that she loved me. Somewhere out in the endless wilderness, I had another mother, who loved me, who had been forced to leave me behind, but who had not wanted to.

'Is there nothing else you can remember?' I flicked my gaze between the three of them. 'Was there anything she said, or…?'

'Nothing that gave us any clue to who she was,' Qa'shanda replied. 'Though… she wore dark leathers. Like –'

'Enough, Qa'shando,' Ahkari said sharply. 'If M'lina wishes to know of her other mother, give her truths, not ruminations.'

Qa'shando's response was to shrug and obey. He always was the kind of man who avoided conflict, who did what others asked of him without argument. I have to wonder, sometimes, how different things might have been, had he been able to finish that sentence. But things were not different. They happened as they did. Things have a habit of doing that.

We didn't talk about my mother any more that night, nor any night afterwards, because I could see that it made Ahkari uncomfortable, and I didn't want to hurt her. She had raised me, and I loved her. But though I might not have spoken of it, but I didn't forget what I had learned. I ran it through my head at moments when my mind was idle, like a mantra.

And so here is everything that, at the age of eight, I knew about my true mother. It was all I would know about her for far, far too long.

She was a Dunmer. She had worn dark leather armour, which had reminded Qa'shando of something Ahkari had not let him speak about. Ahkari thought I would grow up to look very like her, though my hair was darker brown than hers, and her eyes had been a colour that no normal Dunmer's eyes were. She had enemies who would have killed her – and possibly me, too – if they found her. She had loved me. She had given me a name that sounded something like M'lina, but I didn't have the slightest clue what it was. And the final thing I knew about her was that I was determined to find her.

My name, if it wasn't obvious already, is not M'lina. It wasn't for twelve years after that night that I would begin going by my true name, and I didn't even know for certain that it was my true name for five years after that. But it was always there. It was always the name my mother whispered to the sound of the wind and my crying, the night I was born, the first time she held me in her arms and cried over me.

I'm no great writer, and whatever people are saying about me nowadays, I'm not a hero of the kind who deserves to have their tale told. I've done a bit of saving people, sure, but I've also done far more stealing from people. And honestly, I'm not writing this for the people hundreds of years in the future who want to know who I was. I'm writing this for you, Leonardo, so that when you're old enough to start asking questions about the crazy, chaotic mess that's our family, I can just shove this book into your hands and leave you to it. Sorry to disappoint, but this isn't a story about the makings of some noble warrior. It's just my story. It's the answers I wish I could have been told by Ahkari that night, the answers I went too long without. Answers I won't make you wait for when you start to wonder why our family is as it is.

My name is Melyna. This is the story of how I learned that. And it's the story of what happened because I learned it.

* * *

 **Hello there, and thanks for reading this far, I hope you stay for more! This is one of several short-ish stories I'm writing about my Dragonborns; it'll probably be about six or seven chapters long (if it keeps to my plan, which my stories rarely do.) The subsequent chapters will be a fair bit longer than this introduction.** **I doubt anyone will have much trouble working out who Melyna's parents are - especially those who know who my favourite characters in Skyrim are. But she herself has a great deal of learning to do, and I'm looking forward to writing it. Updates will hopefully come weekly.**

 **For anyone who was wondering, Qa'shando is my own character, not one from the games; I had a feeling that the formation of the Khajiit caravan would change slightly over the sixteen years between when this introduction is set, and the beginning of the game, hence Qa'shando's presence and Zaynabi's absence. know the Qa prefix is rare for Khajiit, but... I liked the name too much. I included a little bit of Ta'agra in this chapter; _fado_ is the word for 'mother,' and _thjiz_ means, 'foolish.'As for the** **story's title, it's Draconic - it means, 'Shadowchild.' The reason why may be clear already - and if not, it will be by the end of the story.**

 **Thank you for reading!**


	2. Black Sheep (Or Dunmer)

CHAPTER ONE - BLACK SHEEP (OR DUNMER)

My road to Riften led me through Cyrodiil, Elsweyr and Morrowind, and it took me twenty four years to travel it.

When I look back on it now, I can see that it was a journey taken in steps. Things that happened to me, which led me to make certain choices and follow certain paths. That conversation with Ahkari on that night when I was eight years old was the first step. Or rather, it was the hand that shoved me out of the door and onto the path.

The second step was Qa'shando dying.

If I'm going to be honest, that was the next thing of any real note that happened in my life. And for the record, it happened seven years later. Don't get me wrong – life with the caravan wasn't boring. Never boring. There's a thrill in having that kind of freedom, an open road and no rules or walls to stop you from taking any route along it you choose. I was raised on that freedom, I drank it in like milk. Maybe that's why I live the way I do now. I can't be caged, can't be confined, can't exist in a world that would try to control me. That freedom was the spice in my life. And I loved it.

And besides, Skyrim is a dangerous place – anyone who needs to be told that is either stupid or some prissy Altmer who's never stepped outside the gates of a city. We faced some new danger every day – wolves if we were lucky, bandits if we weren't. We were used to that. It was the price we paid for our freedom, and it was one we were willing to pay.

But the day came when Qa'shando paid with his life. When a bandit gang struck without warning, and he didn't lift his shield fast enough, and an arrow took him through the neck. Bad luck. The right place for them to ambush us, the right angle for the arrow's flight, the right moment for him to be caught off guard. I wish I could say that he died instantly. Or that he died slowly and calmly, with some dramatic and meaningful last words, like people do in books.

The books are full of horsecrap.

We couldn't even help Qa'shando until we'd driven of the rest of the pack, so he was left there for a few minutes, clawing at the dirt, begging for help. By the time we got to him, there was nothing any of us could have done, except put him out of his misery. Which Ahkari swiftly did.

Bad end for a good man. Seems to happen a lot in this world. You ask my father.

That night, we sat around the campfire, the three of us. I kept looking up, expecting to see Qa'shando there. His not-there-ness was almost like a presence. His absence was huge and thick and cloying and I knew then, I knew I had to get away. Because suddenly everything looked different. A wanderer's life with no purpose had always been enough for me, but now it wasn't.

I couldn't live like that. I couldn't _die_ like that. I couldn't spend my years traipsing through the wilds only to have it all come to nothing in a bandit raid. Suddenly, it was occurring to me how lonely the caravan's life was. Qa'shando had had no partner in life, no children, and now he never would. I remember – I can picture it now, as vividly as if I were there again - how my fifteen-year-old self curled her hands into fists and clenched her jaw and pressed her eyes shut. How she made a promise – to herself, to the Divines, to whatever the heck might have been listening, that it would not happen to her. When she died, she would be more than one more traveller whose life amounted to nothing.

The next step on my path to Riften was Kharjo's arrival. Qa'shando had been one of our guards, and the very fact that he'd died showed us just how important it was to have them. Three months later, then, when the letter arrived from Elsweyr, Ahkari answered it instantly. The son of a friend had been imprisoned, imprisoned by authorities whom Ahkari, despite being several months' journey away, still had some influence over. She sent a carefully and strongly-worded message by courier across Skyrim's peaks, through Cyrodiil's forests and over Elsweyr's deserts, and in return, we received Kharjo. Freed from prison, he was now indebted to Ahkari, a debt he would repay with his sword and his loyalty.

What surprised me, when I met him, was that he was only a year or so older than I was. So naturally, he was the one I talked to now, as we strode through the pine woods and across the tundra. And I found myself asking, more than anything else, about his journey to Skyrim. The things he'd seen along the way, the people he'd met, the dangers he'd faced. And even as I hung on his every world, I felt jealousy cover my insides, the way frost covers a blade that's left outside overnight.

 _If I die in a bandit raid tomorrow,_ I thought, _I'll never have seen anything but the trading routes across Skyrim. Kharjo has seen cities and desert wastes and rainforests. I want to see them too. I want to see more._

'Then see it,' Kharjo said simply, when I told him that. 'This one is bound to this caravan by what he owes to Ahkari. But you are not. You may go where you please, M'lina.'

I stared at him as if he'd just suggested that I grow wings and fly. 'What? You mean… just leave? Leave the caravan?'

That was the problem, you see. Fifteen years old's an age when anyone who lives in Skyrim should know either a trade, or how to handle a weapon, or both. You can't afford to be a child any longer, and it's time to look to becoming an adult. I wasn't looking there yet. I'd grown too used to being hugged close to Ahkari's warm fur. I was just as afraid to go as I was to stay.

'Why not?' Kharjo shrugged. 'You can fight, and you know how one survives in the wild. You could visit any place in Tamriel you wished.'

'But Ahkari…' I hesitated, letting my sentence trail away into silence

Kharjo tilted his head on one side. 'You do not wish to leave her?'

'She's this one's mother. Well, she's not, but she is, know what M'lina means?'

'No.'

'She's always looked after this one. If M'lina just goes wandering off, then it'll hurt her. She'll think she didn't take care of this one well enough, or that she wasn't happy, or – '

'Do not be foolish, M'lina. Ahkari cares for you, and she knows you. She knows that you have a free spirit, and a will to seek your own path. She will understand. And if you do not want her to think that it is because of any failing of her own that you leave, simply make sure she knows that it is not.'

There was no arguing with this, really. 'This one supposes you're right. She could always leave it a while. Keep mentioning that she's going to do it, but wait 'til she is older and stronger before she leaves. That way, Ahkari has time to get used to the idea, and Melyna has time to prepare herself.'

Kharjo smiled. 'A good idea. But do not wait too long, or she will stop believing you.'

When it came to following that order, I didn't do so well. It took me three years. I left on the day I turned eighteen. I warned the caravan long in advance that I would be going, and to my relief, no one questioned it, or even asked why I wanted to leave. 'You were born into this life – or you were adopted into it when your mother left you behind,' Dro'marash told me. 'We chose it, but you did not. You have the right to seek your own future.'

Ahkari cried. She'd be furious if she knew I'd written that for you, Leonardo, you know how proud and prickly she can be. I guess even without being related to her, I inherited that from her, right? But she cried. She did, no matter what she tells you.

'This one never believed you would stay forever, M'lina,' she whispered, as she gave me one last hug. 'She watched you, for all these years. Even when we stopped to camp for the night, your eyes strayed to the horizon. You always sought for more than this life, Ahkari knew that. She still hoped…'

I moved back so that I could look into her eyes. They were so different from mine, grey to my crimson, oval pupils to my round ones. And yet it didn't matter. We were family.

'No matter where M'lina goes, or what becomes of her,' I told her, grasping her arms, 'she shall always be your daughter.'

And that was the truth. It still is. I have another mother now – or rather, I've found the lost mother I always had but never knew. But it hasn't changed how much Ahkari means to me. Nothing will.

My birthday gifts that year were gifts with one purpose and one alone – to help me survive in the wild. A beautiful bow, made in the elven style, from Dro'marash. A glass dagger from Kharjo. From Ahkari, clothes suited both to the warm lands of the south and the harsh provinces of the north. One last time, we shook hands, smiled at each other, told each other how much we cared.

Then I turned my back on that existence, and set off to make my life worth its while.

* * *

I owe Teldryn Sero for my name.

All right, if you want to be technical, I owe my mother for my name, since she was the one who gave it to me in the first place. And then I owe Ahkari, Qa'shando and Dro'marash for it, since they did their best to get their tongues around it rather than giving me a completely new name. So when I met Teldryn, he was able to work out what it was my mother had meant to call me.

It took four years for me to get there, though. I spent a long time on the road. I travelled south first, eager to see the warm woodlands of Cyrodiil and the splendour of the Imperial cities. Here and there I took on odd jobs for my food, but mostly I hunted and scavenged for myself, traded meat and pelts for beds in taverns or for clothes or food. And if my coin purse became worryingly light, I would simply steal someone else's. A Khajiit caravan often can't afford fancy scruples about these things. We'd never rob our customers, but the town guards were fair play. From Ahkari, Qa'shando and Dro'marash, I had learned to walk as silently as a velvet-footed Khajiit, how to cut someone's purse strings so carefully they didn't feel the loss, how to slip a hand in and out of another's pocket. Through my skills with the bow, I found food. Through both bow and sword, I kept myself safe. With a light, deft touch, I kept my reserves of gold well-stocked. The world could throw nothing at me that I couldn't face head-on.

From Cyrodiil, I ventured into Elsweyr. A beautiful land, and a fascinating one. The Khajiit were fascinated by this grey-skinned outsider who spoke their tongue and understood their culture. I stayed there for some time. Made some friends, even. I loved it there, with the warm sun and the laid-back, free-spirited way of life. And having been around Khajiit my whole life, I understood Elsweyr's people with far more ease than I'd ever understood those of Cyrodiil.

But the road called me on in the end, of course. It called me to Morrowind, to the man who'd discover my name for me.

The thing was, the longer I stayed in Elsweyr, the more I became aware that I was different. I was not a Khajiit; I was a Dunmer. I liked these people, enjoyed their way of life, but I wasn't one of them. I guess that was what made me pack my things and head northwards. It was time, I decided, to learn about my own people, the people I belonged to by blood. Perhaps then, I would learn a little more about myself.

Leonardo, if you ever go to Morrowind, then let me warn out in advance, you'll be called _outlander_ about once every three minutes. Oblivion, even I look like a full-blooded Dunmer, and half the people I met still called me an outlander. The first few times, it was amusing. The joke got old pretty quickly. I'm not easily hurt, and yet… it stung, finally being surrounded by people who looked just like me, but who made me feel less welcome than a race of people with tails and fur had. After only a few days there, I was tempted to turn around and head back to Elsweyr.

Teldryn was what stopped me. I'd stopped into an inn – sorry, a cornerclub – to get a mug of something to drink and sit for a while so I could decide whether the fact that sujamma was the best drink I'd ever tasted was worth staying longer in a place where I was treated like dirt. And as I collected my drink and turned on the spot, trying to find a place to sit, I spotted him seated at a table in the corner. He stood out right away. The blade and the chitin armour helped; we were in a small village near the border, and everyone else in the cornerclub was wearing the typical plain tunics of farmhands and miners and so on. And then there was the fact that he was… well, honestly, he was hot. Sure, Leo, you're going to be embarrassed reading that, but I did actually like other men before your father. Fact of life. Deal with it, kiddo.

He happened to look up, and I saw him turn his head my way, take in my bow and sword and battered leather armour. We shared a look – a sort of, _good to see another fighter here_ look – and he jerked his head at the seat across from him, inviting me to come and sit with him. The cornerclub was packed, and it was the first time since I'd arrived in Morrowind that anyone had shown an interest in getting to know me, so I went on over.

He could tell right away from the Khajiit accent that I wasn't from around these parts, but when he said, 'You're an outlander, aren't you?' he sounded intrigued, not disgusted. I told him about how the other Dunmer had been treating me, and he nodded resignedly and sympathetically. And of course he asked about the accent, and I explained where I'd come from, and eventually I told him my name, as I knew it then. He frowned, leaned back in his seat, stroked his chin a bit.

'So your real mother called you something,' he said slowly, 'and the Khajiit caravan heard M'lina, so that's what you've always been called? Small wonder my kinsmen have been giving you a hard time.'

'What exactly is their problem?'

'Dunmer tend to hate outsiders, as I'm sure you've realised. And more than anything else, they hate other Dunmer who don't know our ways. Dunmer who don't know what it is to be Dunmer. Here you are, with no knowledge of our traditions, and even going by a Khajiit name.'

I shrugged. 'Well, they can go stick their heads into Red Mountain. I don't know my real name, and there's nothing anyone can do about it.'

'I disagree.' Teldyrn folded his arms. 'M'lina is a Khajiit mishearing of a Dunmer name. You've no knowledge of Dunmer names, but someone who knows them can easily try to guess at what your mother meant you to be called.'

'Are you volunteering?'

He pursed his lips, nodding slowly. 'I reckon she meant Melyna. Nearest name I can think of.'

I took a long, slow sip of my sujamma, and took some time to swallow it. It was just a little conversation, a chat with a good-looking guy in a cornerclub, and yet it had given me my name. I'd entered the room called M'lina, but suddenly, I was Melyna. This Dunmer name felt real and vivid to me, because it was a name that had been on the lips of my mother. If she lived, if she was out there somewhere and thinking of me, she would be thinking of Melyna, not M'lina.

It wasn't for the sake of my bad-tempered kinsmen in Morrowind that I started to call myself Melyna. It was for my true mother's sake, and for my own.

We stayed there talking for a long time, Teldryn and I, sharing drinks and stories. He told me that he was a mercenary, a sword-for-hire, and that his last employer had recently dismissed him, and he was in the inn seeking a new client. The suggestion was obvious, and I didn't need to think much about it to decide to take him up on it. I'd collected enough coin to hire him, and now that I had my name, I felt a sudden strong desire to stay in Morrowind. With Teldryn to help me, perhaps I could learn some of the Dunmer traditions my bristly kindred valued so highly, or at least come to understand them. He could show me the land, teach me its people's ways.

Besides, I wanted to spend time in his company. Yes, partly because of his looks, I admit it. But also because he was a fighter. I felt that he was my equal in a way I hadn't with anyone else since I'd said goodbye to Kharjo, and I found that I enjoyed speaking to an equal very much indeed.

So it was decided. I pushed a pile of coins across the table to him, we chinked our mugs and shook hands, and when we left that inn – cornerclub, dammit – we went together.

It was Teldryn who first taught me to reach for the spark of flame within me that's a Dunmer's natural affinity for magic. He was a spellsword, battling with a blade in one hand and a spell in the other, and it was the first time, really, that I'd seen magic used in combat. Dark Elves and fire have always been closely linked, but I'd never tried to cast anything myself. I was surrounded by Khajiit for most of my life, after all, and Khajiit are rarely proficient mages.

But since I was in Morrowind trying to learn how to be a Dunmer, I started to learn, under Teldryn's not-so-patient guidance. It was easier than I had expected, to call magic into being, to send flames flickering over my fingers. I've tried, since, to learn frost and lightning spells, but I could never do it. Fire came naturally to me – anything else simply didn't. Neither did I feel secure fighting with magic alone; my bow was still the friend I wanted on my side in battle. But learning the fire spells gave me a new style of fighting – favouring the bow until the enemy got close, then casting it aside and pouring flame over them with one hand while using the other to swing my sword.

The next link I forged to my people's homeland was the warpaint. It was evening, as I remember; we were in the ashlands near Seyda Neen, watching the sunset light turn the ash from Red Mountain red and gold. Our campfire was spluttering slightly in the wind. Teldryn sat beside me, his chitin helmet removed for once, dipping his finger into a small stone bowl filled with a purple paint he'd bought from a travelling tradesmen some days ago, and carefully using it to refresh the markings across his forehead, cheeks and chin.

'You should get yourself some of this,' he remarked, wiping his finger on his helmet and leaving a smudge of colour on the chitin. 'What with you being so eager to find the cultural roots and all.'

I rolled my eyes. 'I'm not eager, just interested.'

'Well, if you want people to take a little longer to have you pegged as an outlander, this could be a step in the right direction. Besides, I'm sure it'd look… attractive on you.'

How could I say no to that? I sat still, eyes closed, while he daubed the markings in place with one cool fingertip. Two lines of small squarish shapes, starting at my eye and flowing down my cheek in a shallow S-shape. Even all these years later, I never let that paint fade. Those were good days, travelling Morrowind with Teldryn, and I'm glad to have the memory of them stamped on my face.

I won't keep it from you, Leonardo; Teldryn and I were more than friends, for a time. I'd never got that close to anyone before. It was fun while it lasted, and it meant something real to both of us. But it was never to last, really, mostly because I was never to stay in Morrowind. Don't get me wrong; Tel had no problems working outside Morrowind. If I'd asked him to come with me, he would have. But when I started to think it was time I saw more of Tamriel, I realised that I wanted to be alone. This was my journey, to discover myself, and I didn't want anyone else.

Teldryn understood, and I'll always be grateful for that. Better as friends anyway, we agreed. There was no anger between us. We were both wanderers. _Permanent_ wasn't really a word that had a meaning for either of us, when every morning we woke up somewhere new, and our only real income was the loot we harvested from our battles. You live like that, and it's easy to let things go.

But Teldryn Sero gave me one last thing before we parted at the border with Cyrodiil, and that's the thing I owe him most for. Again and again, we'd discussed the story Ahkari had told me, of the woman who appeared like a phantom from the snowstorm on a winter's night and placed me in the caravan's care. We'd gone over the details minutely – the mystery of it fascinated him as much as it did me. My mother's purple –sorry, Ahkari, _indigo_ – eyes, Teldryn thought might be caused by Daedric interference, or perhaps my mother had somehow resisted the ancient curse that turned all Dunmer eyes red. But the real clue, the one that set my feet on the path to Skyrim, was what she had worn.

'Dark leathers,' Teldryn said thoughtfully, on one occasion. 'Leather armour isn't all that uncommon, but for it to be dark… must have been dyed somehow. She might have just got her hands on a fancy set, but there are plenty of guilds who wear leathers, and have them dyed. Maybe she was a member of one of them.'

And that was the clue. That was the piece of the puzzle I needed. Because a few months after I hugged Teldryn and said farewell to him at the Cyrodiil border, telling him I hoped we'd meet again someday, I had the good fortune to bear witness to a somewhat amusing event in the town of Bravil. It's my kind of place, Bravil – filled with crooks and shadows and alleyways. I'd lifted a few coinpurses that afternoon, and I was wandering through the streets to the inn, pleased with myself and pleased with life, wondering whether I should visit Hammerfell or High Rock next. And that was when I saw the Argonian thief darting through the crowd.

He moved almost too fast for the eye to follow, and with a kind of effortless grace that pretty much forced me to stop walking and watch him. Behind him came a cohort of guards, clanking and panting in their ridiculously heavy armour, shouting at him that he'd violated the law and that his stolen goods were forfeit. But I could see, I'm sure everyone on the street could see, that they were never going to catch him. He overturned a barrel of apples, sending the guards tripping over the colourful fruits as they spilled across the pavement, and scrambled up a wall with Khajiit-like agility. He turned at the top, glancing back with a grin to watch the guards stumbling uselessly after him, and happened to catch my eye. No guards were looking my way, so I gave him a thumbs-up. He winked and jumped down to the other side of the wall.

One of the guards rushed up to the foot of the wall, seemed to consider trying to climb after the Argonian, and decided against it, instead stamping one food in a childish display of ineffectual rage – guards are pretty prone to those, I've noticed. And then he said the words that would lead me to my mother, my home, my answers.

'Thieves Guild scum!'

And it hit me, hit me like a blow from a sabre cat's paw, hit me with a surge of wonder and triumph, that the Argonian man had been dressed in a set of dark leathers.

* * *

The first time I met Brynjolf, I thought he was going to kill me. I freely admit, I've never let him forget about it. He's too gloriously embarrassed by it for me to just let it slide, but honestly, I do understand why he did what he did. It wasn't justified exactly, but it was understandable.

I'm skipping ahead, skipping what the rest of Skyrim would probably think is the most important part, but honestly, Leo? This isn't the Dragonborn's story, it's my story, Melyna's story. So no, I'm not going to go into what happened as I crossed the border from Cyrodiil to Skyrim, not in detail, at any rate. Suffice it to say, it was a bad idea to try pickpocketing those Imperial soldiers. I swear, there was nothing wrong with my technique. It was just complete bad luck that one of them coughed right then, and made one of the others turn around to see where the noise had come from. He had a perfect view of me with my hands in his friend's coin purse, and they reacted too quick for me to run. Bad luck, like I said. Could have happened to anyone.

Especially with the Skeleton Key gone and all, though I wouldn't learn that for some time.

They didn't take kindly to it at all. In fact, they took so unkindly to it that they threw me on a cart with their Stormcloak prisoners. And sentenced me to execution, I might add, which is just plain rude. All it took, though, was one pissed-off dragon thrown into the mix, and I was out of there. I didn't have a problem with helping that Stormcloak soldier out of there. I've never liked Ulfric or his bunch, they have far too many problems with my skin colour for me to ever take to them, but I wasn't feeling too kindly-disposed towards the Empire right then.

What I did have a problem with wasn't helping Ralof get to Riverwood or any of that. It was being asked to take a message to the Jarl of Whiterun. Why in Oblivion should that be my responsibility? They had guards for that, right? Or couriers. Or just some random person from the village could do it. So I told Ralof's sister no. Told her I was sorry, but I wasn't headed for Whiterun. My destination was Riften, and I didn't plan on going anywhere else.

She pulled a face and asked me why in the names of the Nine I'd want to go there. I told her it was none of her business, but the real answer was that I was looking for my mother.

I'd put the pieces together as best I could. Those dark leathers were the uniform of the Thieves Guild. I knew that thieves sometimes did business with the caravan, because Ahkari would buy goods from questionable sources, so if my mother were a thief, it would make sense that she'd be happy leaving me with the Khajiit. And my final clue was the request she'd made when she'd left me with Ahkari – _don't take her near Riften._ It didn't take much asking around to learn that Skyrim's Thieves Guild was based in Riften.

And so I'd come to Skyrim. If my mother had been part of the Guild, maybe she'd be there. If she'd left them for some reason, I could ask after her. And even if I was wrong and she'd never had anything to do with them, surely a group as well-connected as the Thieves Guild could help me find her.

Why was it so important to me to find her? Even now, I can't say for certain. I guess it all comes back to that basic need we all have to know who we are. I didn't like the mystery. I've never liked being helpless, in any way. And not knowing the truth was being helpless, in a way, because there was this big emptiness in my past I had no control over.

Or maybe it was because she'd told the caravan that she loved me, and that she hadn't wanted to leave me. Maybe I didn't like the thought of a woman out there somewhere in the world, longing for the daughter she'd had to give up. And yes, it had occurred to me that Ahkari, Dro'marash and Qa'shando might have lied about her saying that to make me feel better about it, but I thought I might as well give her a chance.

So that was how I ended up in Riften, in Last Seed of the year 4E 201. Twenty-four years old, dressed in ragged bits of armour scavenged from dead Imperials, with a bow slung over my back, a sword at my hip and a dagger in my belt. That was how I ended up nearly being killed by Brynjolf, by a man who would one day become like a brother to me. I never really saw it coming, which I'm still ashamed of – I'd always prided myself on being hard to creep up on. But then again, Bryn was a thief himself, and he'd been one longer than I had.

It was in the marketplace that he caught sight of me, and everything really began. I was hovering by Grelka's stall, examining the bows, wondering if I had the coin to buy one to replace the terrible excuse for a weapon I'd salvaged from one of the Imps I'd killed, or whether I'd need to gather some more gold from the pockets of the people around me. That was when I first heard Bryn's voice, shouting over the crowd.

'If you've ever wanted to have godlike powers, try genuine Falmer blood elixir. Tried, tested and proven to work – and only twenty Septims!'

I glanced up and away from the weapons display, causing Grelka to grit her teeth and make a noise of disgust. Across the market square – well, it's more of a circle, really, but anyway – a Nord man with fox-red hair, dressed in a dark blue coat, was standing under a little roof-covering thing, holding up a tall red bottle. My immediate reaction was one of contempt. Scammers and swindlers were the lowest type of thieves, I remember thinking. They depended on others' stupidity, not their own skill.

So I snorted loudly. Loud enough for him to turn his head my way. I saw the movement and quickly moved on, leaving the marketplace behind me. First rule of being a thief in a strange town is not to attract attention to oneself, and I didn't want to give this man a reason to take an interest in me.

But he had time to get a quick look at me, and that was enough.

I headed down one of the backstreets, smiling as I did so; these places had always been my favourite part of any city. The places least invaded by guards, the places with the most twists and turns and corners to duck around and shadows to melt into. These places were little fragments of wilderness in the heart of civilisation, and that made them feel like home.

Besides, I was a thief. Alleyways and thieves go hand in hand.

It never occurred to me that I was being followed. I heard nothing and saw nothing. There was no sound of breathing behind me to alert me, nor any soft thud of footfalls. I was in mid-stride, my mind busy making plans for how I might contact the Thieves Guild, when it happened.

The first I knew of his presence was a sudden, hard thump and a dull burst of pain as a hand clamped down on my shoulder. Instinct drove me to move, darting forwards in an attempt to wrench myself from his grip, but he had me caught and I could not pull away. My hand went to my belt, fumbling for my dagger, but already his fingers were closing around my lower arm, and he was holding me too tight for me to reach my weapon. One fierce tug, and he had pulled me around so that I was facing him, or rather, facing the flash of red hair and narrowed green eyes that were all that I could see of him before he threw me back against the alley wall, slammed his arm against my neck to pin me in place, and drew his dagger.

Despite the pressure being applied to my throat, I was just about able to spit words at him. 'Get the Oblivion off me, you round-eared _s'wit!'_

Actually, I didn't say 'Oblivion.' I said something worse, but I'm not writing that for you, Leo. Sure, you'll be older when you read this, but right now it's hard to see you as anything other than a pudgy-faced baby, so I'll be leaving out the bad words. Just imagine I actually said something rude every five sentences or so. Anyway.

At the sound of my voice, the grip on my neck instantly relaxed, though didn't release me. I'm not sure what it was that made him pause, made him hesitate with his blade raised. Probably the Khajiit accent – it always grows stronger when I'm angry or frightened, despite all the effort I put into banishing it during that time I spent in Morrowind.

Now that I could catch my breath, I took a closer look at my attacker. It was the man from the market, the man with the dark blue coat, and I could see that I had underestimated him. The jacket had hidden them from a distance, but his limbs were wiry and strong, and there was something – I don't know what, just something – about the way he held his dagger that made me certain he knew exactly how to use it.

I met his gaze, glaring as fiercely as I could, and I saw his eyes widen. His mouth opened slightly, and he peered at my face so intently that I felt a little like there was tiny writing scrawled on my skin that he was having trouble reading. And then he released me completely, taking two steps backwards, so that the width of the alleyway was between us. He dropped his dagger to his side, but did not sheathe it.

I, however, pulled my sword from my belt and jabbed it in his direction – not an attack, just a threat. 'What in the name of Azura's freaking knickers was that for?'

The man stared at me for a second, then shook his head a little. 'I – I'm sorry, lass. I thought you were someone else.'

'Well, I feel pretty damn sorry for whoever the someone else is, and I pray that for her sake she never comes anywhere near this place. What, do you make a habit of assaulting any woman who happens to look like your ex?'

'She wasn't my – ' He snapped off the end of the sentence, and I thought I saw him shudder slightly. 'I… who are you? What's your name?'

I tried to fold my arms, then realised that's a little hard when you're holding a sword, so I made a few less-than-graceful arm movements instead. 'What business is it of yours?'

'Everything that happens in Riften is my business, one way or another.' There was a new confidence and smoothness in his voice; now that he was over his initial surprise or anger or whatever it had been, he was trying to put himself on top of the situation. I could tell. 'I've an interest in knowing what goes on here.'

'Right, so you ambush every newcomer to the city? I'm pretty sure there are easier ways of taking a census. Ways that don't involve manhandling people and waving daggers in their faces.'

'Lass, I'm sorry about that. You look a lot like someone I used to know. Or thought I knew.' He did sound, I thought, genuinely sorry – but he was wary too. He was still suspicious, even if I wasn't the person he had mistaken me for.

I pursed my lips. 'Look, before I talk any more to you, answer me one question. Am I going to be needing this?'

I nodded in the direction of my sword. He glanced down at it, drew in a breath, and shook his head. 'No.'

As if to prove that he was telling the truth, he shoved his dagger back into its sheath. I waited a moment, giving him a warning look to make sure he knew I wasn't letting my guard down, and did the same with my sword.

'If you have to know, my name's Melyna,' I told him. 'I'm… a traveller. Of sorts.'

He inclined his head slowly. 'And whereabouts are you from, Melyna?'

My response was to cross my arms across my chest, properly, this time. At first, I wasn't sure why I was so reluctant to tell him – other people I'd met over the course of my travels, even strangers, I'd been happy to tell that I had been raised by a Khajiit caravan.

And then it hit me. He'd mistaken me for someone else. There was one clear, blindingly obvious reason why I might be mistaken for a different woman: family resemblance.

If looking like my mother got me attacked, then maybe it would be a good idea to keep quiet about my origins, what little I knew of them. At least until I knew where I stood.

'Born in Morrowind, originally,' I said at last – lying, like stealing, is something you have to do from time to time to get by. 'Brought up in Elsweyr. My parents traded with the Khajiit.'

To my relief, he seemed to accept this. 'Hence the accent, I take it.'

'Gods, is it that obvious?'

He chuckled slightly. 'It's not so bad, lass. If you're trying to drop it, it'll take you some practice.'

I leaned against the alley wall. 'So, you got a problem with me being a wanderer with a Khajiit accent? 'Cause I'm not in Riften to start trouble.'

'No? Then what are you in Riften for? No one comes here except for a reason.'

I stared at him. 'No one goes anywhere except for a reason, you Nord ash-brain.'

He blinked, frowned, and scratched his head. 'Never really thought about it. But people's reasons for coming to Riften are usually a little more… complex than their reasons for going to other places.'

One thing was for sure: I was not going to tell him that I was here looking for my mother. Not a chance. But there was another reason I was there – and perhaps, I realised, it would be safe to tell him. Here was a man who could walk in shadow as silently as if he were made of air, who had almost killed me without me seeing him, and whose demeanour spoke of a man who did not make his living in an honest manner. He had all the signs. This man was a thief, no mere conman.

'If you must know, I'm looking for the Thieves' Guild,' I said.

His eyebrows shot up his forehead, but he kept his face impressively impassive. 'A lot of people come here looking for the Guild, lass. The Guild doesn't often return their interest.'

I shrugged. 'You think I didn't learn anything growing up around Khajiit?'

That's a dirty stereotype, I know. Not all Khajiit are dishonourable thieves, any more than all Dunmer are bristly ash-loving people who call everyone 'outlander.' But it was a convenient thing to say right then.

'Point taken.' He took a step towards me, squinting at my face again. 'You're interested in joining the Guild, lass?'

'I've been living rogue for years. Spent some time in Cyrodiil, mostly Bravil. I've been providing for myself for all that time with other people's coin. Trust me, I know what I'm doing.'

He nodded slowly. 'You'll forgive me if I want to test that out before I take your word for it. Perhaps you'd be interested in doing a little errand for me. To prove you're all you say you are.'

'You say the word, and I'll get it done.' I wasn't about to turn down this opportunity. Here was my chance to learn something about my mother – and it would be nice, really, to be part of a group who shared my skills. I'd been alone, or around mostly-decent people like Teldryn, for a long time.

The man regarded me for a moment more, then stuck out his hand. 'Name's Brynjolf.'

'Melyna, like I said.' I took his hand and gave it a single firm shake, making sure he could feel the strength of my grip despite my being so much smaller than him. 'So what's this job you have for me?'

A little lockpicking and manipulation of the contents of pockets was all it took. That was what convinced Brynjolf to send me down into the Ratway, and what set me on the path to learning the answers to my questions. I wonder how different things might have been if I hadn't lied to Brynjolf then, if I'd told him I was looking for my mother.

I'm glad I lied. The way things happened, everything turned out well. Who knows what could have changed if I'd told the truth, and who might have suffered for it?

I'm going to leave this here for now, Leonardo. It's a good place to stop for a while. I'm tired now, and I need to concentrate when I write about what happened next. Because the events that happened later that day were some of the most important of my life. Specifically, the people I met were the important part. Because that day, I met three men who would change the shape of my life forever.

One was Brynjolf, my mentor, my confidant, my friend. The second was a man I would come to hate with every fibre of my being. And the third was a man I would come to love more than life itself.

* * *

 **And we're into the Guild questline itself at last! I'm going to do my best to make sure this is something more than just a retelling of the Guild story; I'll be throwing in some twists and extra events along the way. I'm really enjoying writing this so far, especially trying to get a distinct voice from Melyna, who's very unlike most of the characters whose perspectives I've written from before...**

 **Thanks for reading!**


	3. Thick As Thieves (Quite Literally)

**I'm deviating a fair bit from the game events here, but we'll be returning to the questline as it is in-game next chapter. Slight warning in this one for Melyna throwing out some mild bad language, because she's Melyna. Also, a great deal of sass.**

* * *

CHAPTER TWO - THICK AS THIEVES (QUITE LITERALLY)

That day was an interesting one for first impressions. First Brynjolf mistook me for someone he needed to kill. I in turn got a fairly bad impression of him from the whole trying-to-kill thing, which I'm pretty sure is understandable. I then proceeded to give a spectacularly bad impression of myself to something like the entire town in my first Guild job, which involved running around acting as a glorified debt collector. And then, I met those two men I mentioned.

Nerevar's pants, but those were some interesting first meetings.

I kind of feel it's almost a crime to write about the first guy. Like I'm somehow paying tribute to him by setting his name down in ink, and he deserves no tributes. None at all. But this is my story, and whether I like it or not, this man is part of my story. In a way, he's the reason for my story being as it is.

So, I'll write about him. I'll write about how Brynjolf shook my hand when I passed over the coin purses I'd collected from the stubborn townsfolk, and how he beckoned me towards a door at the far end of the Ragged Flagon. 'Time for me to show you what our outfit's all about,' he told me. 'Which means, you coming to meet the Guildmaster.'

'And I'm assuming Guildmaster is your fancy name for a leader.'

Brynjolf rolled his eyes. He told me once that he thinks being around me is bad for the state of his eyes, because of how often he ends up rolling them in my presence. 'A leader's just in charge of people. Mercer's something more. The Guildmaster manages contacts, connections, fences, reserves of coin, employment, the full works. Sure, he might dish out jobs to his members, but everything comes back to him.'

I freely admit that my first reaction was to respect this man, right away. I mentally kicked myself for it seconds later, and I mentally kick myself even harder for it now. Quite aside from what I would come to learn about Mercer Frey, you should never respect anyone before you meet them. But it was hard not to feel some kind of… appreciation, at the very least, for a man who was so deep in the underworld that he could be in charge of so much.

I don't think it had really occurred to me what an enormous step I was taking. Before, I had been a freelancer, someone who stole only to get by. Now, I was making stealing my career. It hit me then, as I entered the Cistern for the first time. You'll be practically growing up in the Cistern, Leonardo, so you'll always be used to its size, its… grandeur. Funny word to use to describe a place called the Cistern, I guess, even more so back then, when the Guild was in such bad shape. But let me tell you, it was a grand sight, that first time. That high, domed roof. The little waterfalls gushing out of the pipes build into the walls. The lanternlight shimmering slightly on the pools. And everywhere, people dressed in dark leather armour, simply going about their business. This was a place where thieves could live without having to look over their shoulders for guards, and I knew instantly that I wanted it. I wanted this place and the life it offered me.

That was the moment, I think, that joining the Guild became about more than simply looking for my mother.

Brynjolf led me over a wide brick walkway build over the huge central pool, to where a man waited on the circular platform where the walkways met. Said man, a Breton, was talking to a fellow Guild member as we approached, or lecturing him, more like. As we neared the pair, the older of the two slapped a sheathe of paper into the other's hands and made a few vehement gestures; the younger stammered out something that was probably an apology and hurried away, the papers fluttering furiously in his arms.

'Tell Delvin to give up trying to teach Rune to do the numbers. He's absolutely hopeless,' the man growled, not looking at Brynjolf as he spoke. 'Can this new recruit of yours add and multiply?'

I couldn't hold back a smirk. 'Only in Ta'agra.'

The man's brow was already furrowed, and now that frown became more pronounced. 'You'll speak when spoken to, recruit. What's your-'

He had been turning to face me as he spoke. As he said the word _your,_ his eyes swept over my face, and his entire body simply froze. He went as rigid as if he'd been shot with an arrow dipped in a paralysis poison – and let me state for the record, you go pretty darn rigid when one of those things hits you. His mouth opened, the frown vanished behind a look of pure shock, and for a moment, my ears – sensitive like all elves' ears – stopped picking up the sound of his breathing.

It was Brynjolf who broke the silence and shattered the frozen moment. 'I know she looks like… well, you know, Mercer. But take a closer look. The lass is a stranger here.'

Mercer took a slow step towards me, his jaw clenched so tight that it was probably painful. His eyes locked onto mine, and held my gaze. I folded my arms and lifted my chin, so that he knew I was not afraid. But I won't deny that something about the look he gave me made me shudder. I can't say for sure what it was. If there was rage or hatred or disgust in his eyes, I didn't see it, not clearly. Maybe I simply sensed that it was there.

But the moment passed, and Mercer stepped back. I let out a breath I hadn't realised I'd been holding. 'You know, normally I wouldn't complain about having guys stare at me, but this is starting to creep me out. Besides, both you two are a little old for my tastes.'

Mercer sucked in a long, hissing breath between his teeth. Brynjolf shot me a quick look that I took to mean, _don't wind him up._

'What's your name, elf?' Mercer said at last.

'Melyna,' I replied. 'And if you're going to go for the whole interrogation thing like your pal here did, then I'm Morrowind-born. Born near Blacklight.' The lie was somehow easier the second time around. 'But I grew up in Elsweyr, which is why I've got a Khajiit accent which is apparently thick as a Nord's skull – no offence,' I added, glancing at Brynjolf.

'Who're your parents?'

I was beginning to get more than a few bad feelings about this. 'I already told your redhead deputy guy here. My parents were merchants who traded with the Khajiit.'

His eyes narrowed even further. 'Is that so?'

This time, I decided to take a risk. 'It's your choice whether or not you believe me. This is a Guild for thieves, after all. I'd hope you're not looking for totally honest people in a place like this.'

Brynjolf let out soft, appreciative chuckle. 'She's got a point, Mercer.'

Mercer snapped his head around to look at him. 'Brynjolf, we're going to talk about this. Now. Come on.' He turned to jab a finger in my direction. 'You – stay there until we're done.'

I raised my eyebrows. 'Right here?'

'I said _stay there_ and I meant _stay there._ '

'As in, right in this spot. This spot right here, on the wet brick platform here. Not moving.'

'I was always told elves had good hearing. I told you to stay.'

I nodded, shrugging. 'OK. Staying here, then. Not moving. I'll just stand in this place without any seat or anything. And I will remain standing, because that floor is probably too wet to sit on. And I will, you know, pass the time by looking at all the pretty bricks.'

Mercer's jaw clenched even tighter, and Brynjolf gave a small shake of his head. 'I think she can go and sit down, can't she, Mercer?'

'She's staying put,' Mercer grunted, and marched away towards a desk positioned against one of the walls. Brynjolf gave me a quick, apologetic shrug, and hurried after him.

So I waited, watching. It was impossible, of course, to hear what it was they were saying, but I could see their movements. Mercer slamming his hand down on the tabletop, repeatedly. Brynjolf leaning forward to say something in what I imagined was a low, urgent voice. Mercer turning around and pacing an agitated circle. Brynjolf shrugging and shooting glances at me.

 _Malacath's stubby toenails, mother,_ I thought, sending the thought flying in the direction of the mysterious purple-eyed Dunmer who had given birth to me, wherever she might be. _If this is all because I happen to look like you, then what in the name of every Divine and Daedra in existence did you do to make these people react like this?_

After perhaps ten minutes (during which I took to disobeying Mercer's instructions and pacing around the platform, since my legs were getting stiff), I saw Brynjolf nod and walk back towards me, leaving Mercer standing behind the desk with his arms crossed and his head bowed. Reaching me, Brynjolf jerked his head, gesturing for me to follow him out of the Cistern and into the Ragged Flagon, where he headed straight for the bar.

'All right, lass,' he said, pushing some coins across the bar and receiving two tankards of mead in return, one of which he shoved in my direction. 'I'm not going to tell you what all that was about, so don't ask. All I'm saying is that you've got a face that brings back bad memories for both myself and Mercer. The more I look at you, the more I wonder if we're both overreacting, but the fact is, Mercer doesn't feel completely at ease letting you into the Guild.'

I was glad to be able to raise my mug to hide my face; I wasn't going to let this man see me looking worried. 'Right, fine. I won't ask for details. What I want to know is whether I'm in or not.'

'Well, normally Mercer's fine with just one or two aptitude tests, and you've done those. But this time… Mercer says he wants to give you a slightly trickier challenge. I think maybe he's going a little far, but then, the Guild was always a sink-or-swim place, and if you fail this one, then maybe you've not got what it takes after all.'

I slapped my tankard down with as much force as I could without it seeming melodramatic. 'Try me.'

He grinned. 'That's the attitude we need. So listen. Sometimes the Guild manages deliveries of certain illicit goods up and down Skyrim. Moonsugar, illegal arms, stolen property, that sort of thing. We like to steal that sort of thing ourselves, of course, but we're in a rough spot right now, and we can't afford to turn away any business. We have a few trusted contacts we use to deliver these things, but sometimes, things go wrong.'

This, I understood completely. 'I've been a traveller long enough to know the roads around Skyrim aren't the safest places.'

'You got it. A while back, one of those contacts I mentioned was managing a delivery of stolen goods, and he never arrived. We sent some of our junior members to investigate. They came back reporting that they'd found the delivery caravan in shreds – horses and men dead - and the goods gone. They followed the trail a little way, to one of those abandoned hillforts you find everywhere in the mountains. Turned out the place was abandoned no longer. Crawling with bandits. I thought maybe they were exaggerating to get out of a rough job, so I went to look myself about a week ago.'

'And let me guess, they weren't exaggerating?'

'I wish they had been. And I also wish Mercer wasn't asking you to go and get those goods back.'

I took a long, slow sip of my mead. 'Right. You really weren't kidding about the sink-or-swim.'

'I'll be honest with you, lass, I think it's a little much. I tried to talk him down and he wasn't having any of it. If you wanted to walk away from this now, I don't think anyone would judge you.'

'I'm not walking away.' I'd have said it even if I hadn't been looking for my mother. I've been called stubborn more than once in my life. I tend to prefer the term _determined,_ but stubborn will do.

Brynjolf gave me a slow nod. 'Had a feeling you'd say that. Look, there's about twenty men in that place, and no guarantee the goods are even still there. I've got a list of the items that were stolen, and to be honest, I think Mercer would count the mission as a success if you came back with even half of them. Still, it's not going to be easy going. And I'm not allowed to send one of the others with you.'

I gulped down the last few dregs of my mead. 'So, it's just me against twenty bandits, trying to find some goods that might have been sold on by now.'

'Well, not exactly. Even if they were sold on, you might be able to find out who they were sold to. And it doesn't have to be just you.'

He slipped a hand into his pocket, brought out a cloth pouch, and tipped a pile of coins onto the bar. 'That's five hundred Septims, lass. Don't think this is a free handout – if you decide you're joining up with us, I'll take it out of your wages until it's paid off. And sure, I understand there's nothing to stop you running off with it, but bear in mind that even in this state, we've got eyes in a lot of places. If we wanted to, we could find you.'

'I've no intention of running off,' I said firmly, closing my hands around the heap of gold. 'Before I take this, though, two questions: what's this for, and would your permanently-frowning leader approve?'

'I highly doubt he'd approve, but it's my coin, and I think you're a worthwhile investment. Besides, Mercer's probably been at that extra-strong spiced wine if he thinks you can take that fort alone. I can't give you official help, but I can help you get it unofficially. That's what the coin's for.'

He shoved the now-empty purse back into one of the many pouches attached to his leathers. 'There's usually a mercenary or two staying in the inn, waiting for employment to stroll by. Last time I was there, there was an Imperial lad. Some kind of mage, from the looks of him. Dark hair, ponytail. You pay his fee, and you'll have help in that fort.'

I raised one eyebrow. 'I'm fine with it on principle. I've got good experience with mercenaries. But a mage isn't going to be the greatest help when it comes to sneaking around.'

'Trust me, lass, you'll need brute force in that place as much as you need stealth. Normally the Thieves Guild isn't about killing people, so don't get into the habit of it. But this once… you're not going to make it out of that place without a few people biting it, trust me.' He shrugged and gestured to the coins. 'Take the money, and you take the job.'

I didn't hesitate. I pulled out my shamefully light purse and swept the offered gold into it. 'Deal. So where am I heading? And what am I looking for?'

After digging around in several other pouches, Brynjolf produced a scrap of parchment. 'There you have it. All the items in the delivery we lost, and a map with the location of the fort.' He set down his mug and met my gaze, his expression suddenly serious. 'If you change your mind, bring that and the money back and we can consider all loose ends tied. But if you're going for it, you've got a three-day time limit to get us what we're owed.'

'Don't worry your ginger head about it. I'm seeing this through.' To underline my point, I pushed back my chair and rose to my feet. 'I'll be seeing you soon.'

Brynjolf nodded, smiling. 'You've got backbone, and we need more of that down here. I hope to be seeing you soon.'

'You will be,' I told him, and, collecting up the map, headed for the door.

'Hey, Melyna.'

I turned and glanced back at him.

'Don't get killed, lass.'

* * *

There are several places that could claim to be the centre of Riften. Forget the Jarl's palace – that woman has all the brains of a senile skeever. No, the heart of Riften is no official building. Perhaps it's the underground Cistern where the Guild manages its business. Or maybe it's the Black-Briar meadery. But quite possibly, it's the Bee and Barb inn. This place… it's where the rumours fly, where the secrets are carefully passed around, where tongues are loosened by the taste of mead and ale. It's also where the travellers come, where the strangers stop to rest. The place where the nobleman and the beggar get drunk just the same as each other. There's something about an inn that makes people equal.

So it was no surprise that a place that thrummed with life as the Bee and Barb did would be the place to find a sword for hire – or a spell for hire, if what Brynjolf had told me was true. This place was barely comparable to the dingy Cornerclub where I'd met Teldryn. There was energy here.

I ignored the filthy looks sent my way by the Argonian couple who seemed to be in charge; Brynjolf's earlier errands had involved squeezing money out of them, and it was hardly surprising that I was an unwelcome sight. But I'd had plenty of glares directed at me in my life, and I wasn't going to start being fazed by them now. I blocked them out, and turned in a slow circle, scanning my eyes over the motley assortment of Riften's denizens assembled in the room.

There. There he was, seated near the door; those orange robes were a complete giveaway. An Imperial man of about my own age, with dark hair tied back into a ponytail, just as Brynjolf had said. A book lay open in his lap, and he was carefully turning the pages in between sips of whatever liquid was in his tankard. He had the same air of being different to the others in the room that Teldryn had had; the same air I knew I had.

I crossed the room to stand in front of him, waiting for him to notice me. He did so after only a few seconds, his eyebrows rising. I could almost see the mental calculations taking place as he glanced at my weapons and armour – was I trouble, or was I potential profit? At last, he closed his book and set his flagon on one side. 'Might I be of assistance?'

I regarded him for a second or two, and I'm sure I remember thinking that he was fairly good-looking. The eyes, mostly. I've always kind of liked human eyes, they're so much more interesting than the various shades of red that Dunmer can have, you know? Well, red and the occasional splash of purple, but whatever. This guy's eyes were a shade of brown that was almost amber, and it was nice to look at. It wasn't the instant feeling of _Azura, but he's hot,_ that I'd got with Teldryn, but it was something, it was there.

Still, I didn't dwell on it; there was business to do. 'Someone told me you're a mercenary looking for a client.'

He made a small sound, kind of like, _hrm._ 'I prefer _mage-for-hire_ to mercenary. I'm no mindless brute to be shoved at the enemy. My skill in battle is unmatched, and fortunately for you, that skill can be bought.'

I snorted. 'Gods, you hirelings are all the same. Last one I travelled with kept insisting he was the best swordsman in Morrowind. You come up with worse pick-up lines than a drunk looking for a date.'

He stared at me for a moment, then gave a small shake of his head. 'Are you looking for battle assistance, or simply for someone to act as a whetstone for you to sharpen your tongue on?'

'Well, I never pass up the latter when it shows itself, but mostly I'm here for the former.'

'Then look no further.' He folded his arms, leaning back against the wall. 'I'm a Destruction specialist first and foremost, but I've some skill in the schools of Restoration and Alteration to go along with it. Whether you want healing, or to watch your foes burn alive in a gout of arcane fire –'

'Yeah, yeah, skip the speech.' I was already digging around in my pockets for Brynjolf's gift of coin. 'How much are you asking?'

He rattled off the answer in a way that made it clear he'd rehearsed it. 'Five hundred is my usual fee. Should you dismiss me from your service and decide to hire me again at a later date, it's possible I'll waive the fee, depending on how long it's been since -'

'I said quit the lecturing.' I flicked my hand, sending the coin purse spinning through the air to land with a thump and a clink in his lap. 'I've work to do, I need a hand with it, and you're apparently the only soul in Riften who's available. You don't need to try to sell yourself.'

He didn't respond to this until he'd had a good long look at the contents of the purse, counting the contents under his breath, and determined that everything was in order. 'Then say the word, and I'm at your service. That's as long as I'm not ordered to press any suspicious buttons that clearly should not be pressed, swim in slaughterfish-filled rivers, or carry immensely heavy items.'

'I can pretty much promise the second won't happen. If the first thing happens, I'll be the one doing it. I make no promises about number three.'

He sighed heavily and took a long swig from his tankard. 'Wonderful.'

'Finish your mead, or whatever it is, and let's get a move on.' I jerked my head towards the door. 'I've got a time limit on this job, so I'm not standing around if I can help it. What's your name, by the way?'

He knocked back the rest of his drink and stuffed his book into his backpack before replying. 'Marcurio. And you are?'

'Melyna,' I said, and stuck out my hand, because I figured I might as well. He took it and shook it, and just like that, I'd met my future husband. Nothing, really, to let me know what he was going to come to mean to me, aside, maybe, from some nice eyes.

Funny how that works. With Mercer, there was no deep, ominous music playing in the background to let me know that he was going to be my mortal enemy, and with Marcurio, there weren't lutes and flutes and all that garbage. There was no thunderbolt of _this is it,_ no deep heartfelt conversation that showed we had a special connection that would endure for all sodding eternity, and so on, pass the sick bucket. 'Cause that kind of thing doesn't happen, Leonardo. You can't see these things coming. They just happen, and Gods, but they're a whirlwind of surprises when they do.

* * *

'You might have warned me.'

I pushed myself up from the position I'd been lying in, belly flat against the cold (and rock-strewn, I might add) ground, so that I had a better view of the man lying in an equally uncomfortable position next to me. A better view meant I could glare at him more effectively.

'Look, mister arcane fire, I told you I needed help, and you didn't ask for more details. If you wanted an easier job, you should have changed that big self-selling spiel of yours. _My skill in battle is unmatched, as long as I'm only dealing with nice safe cozy threats.'_

'You're the one who said she didn't want to hear that speech, so it wouldn't have made any different if that had been in there,' Marcurio retorted.

I gritted my teeth. 'Look, if you've got a problem with fighting a fort full of bandits, give my money back, turn around and head back to Riften. I'm not stopping you.'

'I have nothing wrong with fighting a fort full of bandits! I just said that some warning of what I was walking into might have been nice.'

'Then you should have asked for one. Are you coming or not?'

He let out a loud huff. 'Yes, I'm coming!'

'Good!'

'Fine!'

We were lying behind a conveniently large bramble thicket which lay a distance away from the outer wall of the fort Brynjolf had marked on my map. By sticking to the tree cover, we had approached undetected thus far, but now we were up close, it was obvious that getting inside was not going to be a simple task. At least five were seated on the walltop, busily engaged in some kind of card game, and all it would take would be for one to turn his or her head at an inopportune moment for us to be spotted. And before you ask, no, there wasn't a back way into the fort, on account of it being built up against a cliff. It was the front entrance or nothing.

'We need a distraction,' I decided. 'Can you summon those flame spirit things?'

'Atronachs,' he snapped. 'They're called atronachs. And no, I can't.'

I nodded slowly. 'Some unmatched mage you are.'

He sucked in a deep breath, as if trying to steady himself. 'I can use a number of fire spells. I could try setting fire to their cards. I could probably hit from here.'

'Nah, you do that and it'll be easy for them to work out that the spell came from down here. Might be better to do something that could happen naturally, like, I don't know, setting fire to a tree.'

'And start a forest fire? I'll pass.'

This was a good point, but I sure as Oblivion wasn't going to admit it. 'Can't a master of the arcane use ice spells to keep a fire under control?'

'If I have to be there to control the fire, not only will I be spotted easily, but it defeats the purpose of distracting them so we can sneak in.'

Another good point. Damn it. I glared up at the bandits as if it were their fault that my travelling companion was so Gods-damned snarky, and it was then that I saw the answer. Grinning, I snapped my fingers.

'The flag. There.'

It was a shabby thing, frayed at the bottom and the sides and filled with more holes than Helgen's anti-dragon defence plans. The colouring was faded, but it looked as if it had once been purple; maybe this fort had once been under control of the Rift's Jarl, a place to lodge soldiers perhaps. But the crucial thing was that it was some distance away from the bandits, attached to a pole that stood to the left of their position. If it went up in flames, they would surely notice; but it was far enough from Marcurio and I that they would be unlikely to look in our direction.

'So we set that on fire,' Marcurio said, pursing his lips. 'Which hopefully distracts these people long enough for us to get through the entrance without being noticed. Do you actually have a plan for doing whatever it is you need to do when you get inside?'

'I'm retrieving some stolen objects. Hold on.' I fished the list out of my pocket. 'Two silver candlesticks, Breton-made. An Akaviri katana, malachite, with a dragon pattern engraved into the blade. Some enchanted ebony gauntlets, an antique lute made with oak wood from the Valenwood forests, and a signed original copy of _The Sultry Argonian Bard.'_

Marcurio stared at me. 'What was that last one again?'

I ignored him. 'The sword and the gauntlets… the bandits would probably have kept those, right? They like to keep fancy weapons and stuff when they steal them. And knowing the kinds of people they are, I bet they kept _The Sultry Argonian Bard._ The rest… they might have sold that. But if we're lucky, they'll be stashing it until they have a chance to find a buyer. I mean, people who buy suspicious expensive goods from bandits aren't exactly a Septim a dozen in the wilds of Skyrim.'

'I'll refrain from asking why you want these things,' Marcurio muttered. 'And I'll simply say, with all due respect, that no matter how good at sneaking around you are, I think it's unlikely you're going to remain undetected while rummaging through every chest in this place for those… items.'

I snorted. 'Why do I get the feeling that when you say _all due respect,_ you're giving no respect at all?'

'I'm giving you all the respect you're actually due.'

'Yeah, whatever. Anyway, my employer as good as told me that stealth wasn't going to be any good this time around. We'll sneak in as much as we can, and when they find us, are you up for some good old-fashioned bandit-slaying?'

A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth, and a tongue of flame sparked into being in each of his palms. 'I've not got any problems with that. This is the part of the business I enjoy.'

I couldn't help but laugh at that, quickly biting my lip to stop it in case the bandits overheard. 'And what's the part you don't enjoy? The travelling, the cold, the working with smartarse Dunmer women?'

Marcurio shrugged. 'I'm fine with the first, the second is a curse from the Daedra, and I've yet to form an opinion on the third.'

'Well, be sure to let me know when you sort that one out. Whatever kind of opinion it ends up being, I'm willing to bet that it'll be colourful.'

'On that, we can agree.' He glanced in the direction of the flag. 'Shall we begin?'

'Fire away. Literally.'

Frowning with concentration, Marcurio curled his fingers tight around his fistfuls of fire, giving them a few seconds to build up their power before letting them loose. Two smouldering trails of orange snapped through the air and struck the flag dead-centre. The ancient cloth went up in flames instantly – and the impact of the spells striking home was enough to tear it free from the pole. As luck would have it, at that exact moment, a gust of wind came sweeping low through the forest, and sent the now-fiery flag soaring directly towards the bandits. And that gust of wind died at the perfect moment to send it falling more or less right onto their heads.

There was a moment of silence, followed by a bellowed mixture of screams, roars, yelps, and beautifully colourful expletives. The bandits leaped to their feet, one of them desperately shaking the burning flag from his shoulders, where it had deposited itself like a rather painful cape. Another yelled something about fetching water. Another scrabbled to pull the playing cards to safety – without success, if his despairing moan was anything to judge by. And within a few seconds, they were stumbling away in the direction of the stairs that led down to ground level, nursing burns in an array of places.

I looked at Marcurio. He looked back at me.

'Even if I do say so myself,' he said, the biggest smirk I have ever seen stamped on his face, 'that was perfect.'

For once, I couldn't help agreeing with him. 'Freaking brilliant. Reckon you can pull that off again sometime?'

'Give me another flag and a pack of bandits and I'll see what I can do.'

'I'll see if I can set that up. But right now we got work to be getting on with.'

We didn't wait; there was no time. We leaped from the bushes, pushing through the branches and sprinting towards the fort entrance. It was an open archway, no door, only a ramshackle wooden barricade which it was a simple matter to slip past. Beneath the arch, we paused, flattening ourselves against the cool stone of the walls, watching as the last few bandits disappeared inside the main building.

'Only one door,' Marcurio muttered.

I shrugged. 'It'll all be easier once we get inside. We can't afford to fight them out here, there's no cover, but in the fort, it'll be different. We'll have an advantage, even with just the two of us.'

'I have never known a group of two people to have the advantage over an entire pack of bandits. Unless those two people were giants.'

'Gods, what wouldn't I give to be able to launch these guys into the sky the way giants do,' I muttered. 'But the thing is, bandits are stupid. That definitely gives me an advantage over them, I don't know about you.'

He rolled his eyes, but otherwise made no response to this. 'Well, let me know when we're going in after them.'

I gave it a minute, so that we wouldn't be right on the bandits' heels, then nodded. 'Let's move.'

It was a simple matter to dash across to the entrance, wrench open the door, and slip inside. And to be honest with you, Leonardo, I can't remember most of the details of what happened after that, so if you were waiting for the epic description of our glorious battle through the fort of outlaws, I'm going to have to let you down, kiddo. I'll just have to give you a sketchy outline of what I remember. Cut me some slack, it was four years ago.

Our first victory was finding the place where the bandits slept. It was a small, dimly-lit room with beds and bedrolls scattered across the floor, and there were only two inside, sitting against a wall with a book propped open in front of them. Both were sniggering furiously, and both quickly stopped. It's hard to snigger when there's an arrow between your eyes or an ice spike through your chest. The book they had been sniggering over, was, of course, the signed first edition of _The Sultry Argonian Bard._ So into my backpack it went – with a few spots of blood sprinkled over Act Three Scene Two, but safely retrieved. And a few rooms and corpses later, we had the lute and the candlesticks too – and more besides. If you ever become a bandit, Leo – which I do not at all recommend – don't stack all your treasure in one room, OK? It makes life far too easy for visiting thieves. Find someone to buy it right away.

And yes, there was fighting in all this. Bryn hadn't been mistaken about the number of bandits in that darn fort. We happened to stumble upon the place where the ones who'd been outside had retreated to see to their wounds – or rather, where a Bosmer mage was mending their wounds for them.

This part, I do remember vividly. Because it was the moment when I saw that my companion's claims about being a master mage weren't completely unfounded. When we pushed open the door and saw them all in there, six or seven of them, there was a moment of complete stillness and silence. Then they leaped to their feet as one, snatching up weapons and racing towards us.

Marcurio took a step forwards and shot me a look that said clearly, _leave this to me._ And because he'd have no reason to want us both to get killed, I did so. I jumped back a pace and let him stand in the doorway as the bandits charged him, praying that whatever kind of plan he had was a good one.

It was better than good; it was freaking brilliant. To be honest, it didn't really need a plan so much, but it was still impressive. It was a thing of beauty to watch, the lightning lancing forth from his hands, closing the distance between Marcurio and the nearest bandit in less than a second. And then to watch that streak of white and purple fork, to erupt as it stuck the bandit, into two separate shafts of light. One shot left, one right, and even as the first enemy fell, a smoking black mark over his chest, two more bandits stopped dead, suddenly transfixed by the blaze of energy. And then the two forks divided themselves, and four more bolts of lightning – thinner and frailer than the first, but still fizzing and crackling with power – and each of them hit another target.

Marcurio stepped back, wringing his hands; I noticed that his sides were heaving as if he'd just run from Windhelm to Whiterun. 'Chain lightning,' he explained, somewhat breathlessly. 'It takes a bit of energy to fire out that much… well, energy.'

'Did the job, though,' I murmured. The first three bandits were lying in various uncomfortable-looking positions in front of us – and I mean the kind of positions that someone only lies in if they're dead. The remaining four had been either knocked off their feet or just thrown a short distance backwards, but that was all I needed. My hand flew to my shoulder, my fingers closed around an arrow, and in a second my arm was performing the fluid movement I'd put it through a million times. Nocking arrow to bowstring, pulling it back, letting it fly. One of the bandits, an Argonian who'd just regained his feet, went smacking to the ground again. _And repeat,_ I told myself, reaching for another arrow.

I took out the next two, and by that time, Marcurio had recovered enough to dispatch the last with a perfectly-aimed spear of ice. Don't tell him I said this, Leo, but by that point I was already beginning to feel I'd got my money's worth from the guy. Brynjolf's advice had been sound.

So that was it; on we went. I guess we could've turned around and gone back then and there – we had most of the stuff on the list. But hell, if there's one thing people should learn about me, it's that I'm stubborn as shit. Damn it, I went and swore in this thing, and I was trying not to.

Anyway, there was no chance I was going to turn back unless I knew the things I was looking for weren't there. And as it happened, they were. Marcurio and I found that when we reached the top room of the fort's tower, pushed open the door, and saw the man standing there with the gauntlets on his hands and the katana strapped to his belt.

Now, I don't think even bandits are mad enough to wear their armour all day, so I reckon that the man standing next to the armoured feller had found or heard the carnage downstairs and run up to warn the guy, and boss-man grabbed his armour so he was ready to face a fight. I didn't stop to ask. You know how they say that you should never shoot the messenger? Well, I went ahead and shot the messenger. People do tell me that I never listen.

The man in armour let out the sort of yelp that a ten-year-old boy might make as the messenger-bandit next to him crashed to the ground, my arrow buried in his neck. He spun around to face us, and I saw that he was a Nord – and I mean a _Nord_ Nord, with bright red warpaint just about everywhere, more braids than I could count, and all the height and girth you'd expect from a Skyrim-grown warrior. With a scraping swish, he drew the katana. Marcurio flicked a fire spell into being in each palm. I slung my bow over my shoulder – arrows weren't the best weapon to use against someone wearing plate armour that covered most of their body – and pulled my own sword from its sheath, wishing I'd had time to get hold of something better than one of those cra… those shoddy blades the Imperials carry during my flight from Helgen.

'What do you want here?' The Nord twirled the blade around in his hand – a showy move, but not really a practical one. Would have been easy for him to have dropped it. 'What in the name of the Nine gives you the right to waltz in here and kill my men?'

'The answer to your first question is, we're after that sword and those gauntlets, because you stole them from my employers,' I replied smoothly. 'And as for your second question - for one thing, we didn't waltz. It was more of a march. Or just a plain old boring walk. And for a second, they weren't _your men._ People don't belong to people, unless you're in one of those stupid sappy romances where the guy and the girl are all, _you belong to me, my love, we are destined for each other because our love is so pure it makes us belch butterflies._ Besides, they weren't all men, anyway, there was a woman back there.'

There was a long silence.

'You what?' the Nord said at last.

'Never flipping mind. Anyway, the point is, the stuff you stole – I take it you've been stashing it here to sell it later? Or maybe you were just keeping it for the hell of it, but whatever. That stuff, I need it. I've already taken most of it.'

Marcurio coughed.

'Sorry, me and my smart-arse sidekick have already taken most of it.'

The man did a few more seconds of staring, then shook himself, apparently decided that we were a lost cause, and charged us. Which, for the record, is a damn stupid thing to do to a pair of spellcasters. I raised my left hand, Marcurio raised both of his, and as one we sent fire shooting towards him. He howled as it struck his armour, the heat spreading through the metal to reach and scorch his skin.

'Didn't know you were a mage,' Marcurio remarked, shooting me a sidelong glance.

'I'm not. I just know a few fire spells.'

'Ah, good. No chance that I'll be overshadowed, then.'

What followed was… almost embarrassing, actually. I mean, I was embarrassed on behalf of this ridiculously overdressed bandit guy. Heavy armour might keep you safe, but you just try keeping up with a professional thief in that stuff. And how do you fight a pair of spellcasters who can send fire at you from anywhere, when your reach is only as long as your blade? 'Course, it was hard for Marcurio and I to actually dish out any damage, what with the guy having steel covering him head to toe, but at least we could burn and zap him, while all he could do was blunder around, flailing in our direction. Once, he steeled himself and charged right at Marcurio, but my hired help simply help up his hands and send a fireball smacking right into the man's chest. Not enough to break the armour or anything, but enough to send him reeling.

The Nord stumbled back three and a half steps, almost overbalancing in his stupidly heavy armour, and spent a few moments panting and gaping at us before drawing himself up to his full height, puffing out his chest, and pointing the stolen katana in our direction. 'You… you won't win this! I'll be kicking your dead bodies before the day's out. This fort and its treasure – they're mine! I am Jormadric Bear-Blade, son of Jaroslaf Bear-Blade, and my family has robbed the roads of Skyrim for generations. No ragged Dunmer wench or Imperial mageling is going to take this fort from me-'

I glanced at Marcurio. He glanced at me. In unison, we rolled our eyes and readied for our weapons, my hand going to pull my bow down from my back, his fingers closing around a handful of purple lightning.

I've learned something about Nords over the years: they like to brag. Bryn tells me it comes from old traditions, where warriors would boast about their ancestry and exploits and so on before any duel or sparring match. And aside from the fact that they look like prats doing it, I've not got a problem with it, per se. The issue is that they tend to think that people will respect their traditions and stop and listen to them. Marcurio and I didn't.

Jormadric of the over-inflated ego was still in mid-rant when he realised that he had an arrow and a lightning spell aimed at his heart, and by then it was too late. My shaft struck him in the neck, where a gap between helmet and breastplate let the point through. He reeled back another step, staring wide-eyed at the shaft now embedded in his neck.

It hadn't gone far in, and perhaps he would still have survived it, had Marcurio's lightning spell not struck him dead in the chest and blasted him off his feet. He hurtled the length of the room, crashed into the wall with a metallic clank, and crumpled at its base, his mouth hanging open, his eyes wide and vacant, and the sparks from Marcurio's spell still skidding across the surface of his armour. His body jerked a few times in the grip of the lightning, then fell limp.

'Well, he looks shocked,' I said.

Marcurio let out a low, pained groan. 'You didn't just make that pun. Please tell me you didn't.'

'Fine, I didn't. Does it make you feel any better?'

'No!'

Smirking, I crossed the room and knelt beside the gormlessly gaping corpse. 'Well, take comfort in the knowledge that the job is done. Here is a katana, and here are a pair of ebony gauntlets. That's the full set.'

I dropped my backpack down beside me, pulled it open, and realised a problem; the lute, book and candlesticks already completely filled it. After a moment of reflection, I pulled the candlesticks out of my pack and thrust them at Marcurio, then, as an afterthought, snatched up the lute and did likewise. He yelped and hurriedly threw up his arms to catch them. 'I'm out of room,' I explained. 'Take these for me, would you?'

Two outraged amberish-brown eyes glared at me from under the stack of items. 'I am an apprentice wizard, not a pack mule!'

'Well, you're stubborn as a mule, and you look plenty like one, so forgive me if I treat you as one. Come on, I've got to get these back to Riften somehow, and there's only so much room in my pack.'

He glared at me for a moment more, then gave in, shrugged off his own bag, and shoved the candlesticks inside. 'All right, fine, I'll take them. Who are you delivering these to, anyway?'

'I'm not delivering them, I'm retrieving them. What the Oblivion do you think I am, a flaming courier?'

Marcurio paused in his wrestling match with his bag in order to take a good long look at me. 'In my experience, couriers are less att.. I mean, less armed.' He coughed. 'To the extent that I did once see one turn up to deliver a message naked.'

I let out a rather explosive snort. 'You're not serious. _Naked?'_

'Well, he was in his underwear. Plus boots and hat.'

'But nothing else? Honestly? Did you ask him why…?'

'I was scared to. Maybe it had been a really warm day when he set out, or maybe he just didn't have much time that morning, or maybe he was robbed somewhere along the road.'

'Well, if it was the latter, then that's some bloody impressive dedication to duty.'

I realised, suddenly, that we were both laughing. It was a pleasant realisation. It had been far, far too long since I'd laughed with someone about anything. I'd laughed _at_ people, sure, but there was something different about this. This felt companionable and… right.

'I've seen stranger things in my time, I guess,' I said, finally managing to tie my bag shut and swinging it up onto my shoulders. 'I've been travelling Tamriel practically non-stop for the past six or so years.'

'That's… fairly impressive, I suppose. Any good stories?'

I frowned. 'Well, there was this one thing that happened in Morrowind. Let's move; I'll tell you on the way.' I jerked my head at the door, and Marcurio walked at my side as I made my way out of the tower room and down the stairs.

'This mercenary I was travelling with, Teldryn – he and I were travelling across the ashlands, one of those peaceful dull evenings where nothing much is happening, you know? Then we see this Bosmer mage standing up ahead of us, chanting some gibberish about how he's going to touch the sky like a dragon. Then as he finishes mumbling this gobbledygook, he casts some kind of spell – and then just like that, he shoots up into the air. And, like, ten seconds later we see him plummeting back down towards us…'

It was dusk by the time we found our way outside again. But a few candlelight spells, and one shared story after another, kept the dark at bay was we made the long trek back towards Riften.

* * *

There's not much else to tell, I guess, when it comes to that day's events. Marcurio and I parted ways in the inn, but he told me that the payment I'd given would be enough for him to happily join me for free for a few more adventures. I promised that if I needed help with any more jobs, I'd come to him. I never told him I was with the Thieves Guild, but I think that he worked it out for himself, somewhere along the way. He didn't make an issue of it. I was paying him, after all.

I delivered the goods to Brynjolf, who grinned from ear to ear and said something like, 'Good on you, lass,' when I, with no small amount of difficulty, heaved the entire set of stolen trinkets onto a table in the Ragged Flagon. Mercer was called to see my victory for himself. He eyed me slowly and coldly, then said he couldn't argue with my success. I was sent to Tonilia to be measured for my armour, then assigned a bed and a personal chest in the Cistern. And suddenly, for the first time in my life, I had a home. Not just a tent pitched in the wilderness over a patch of ground that would host me for the night. A place that was properly mine.

It was just a bed in an underground sewer hideaway, but it was mine.

Three days later, I was given my armour. The day after that, I was given my first break-in mission, overseen by Brynjolf. Soon I was being paired up with the more junior members, and then trusted to go it alone. Often, if I knew combat would be involved, I would head to the inn, where Marcurio would be waiting, willing to provide me with a partner both in battle and in verbal sparring. And so the days passed, and I stopped missing the feel of the wind on my face as I woke. My ears started to tune out the Cistern's constant waterfall sounds. And finally the day came when I stopped, blinked a few times, and realised that I had completely forgotten about trying to find answers about my past.

It simply hadn't occurred to me, for day after day. I hadn't been thinking about it.

Because I had come to the Thieves Guild looking for a mother. And I'd got better. I'd got a family.

* * *

 **Next chapter, the actual Guild quests will be starting - sorry for taking a while to reach them, but I needed to set up Mel and Marcurio's relationship here... and it was fun to write it.**

 **Thanks for reading!**


	4. In The Dark (And In Trouble)

**Here is Chapter Three! If there's anyone here who read my Nightingale series way back when, I've slipped in a reference or two in this chapter, just for fun...**

* * *

CHAPTER THREE – IN THE DARK (AND IN TROUBLE)

Marcurio dropped into the seat opposite me with a grin on his face and a tankard clasped in each hand. 'Happy anniversary, Mel.'

'Hey, thanks.' I couldn't keep the tone of surprise out of my voice. 'Wasn't sure you'd remember.'

'How could I forget? A year ago, my most reliable employer came sassing her way into my life.'

Chuckling, I lifted the tankard to my lips and promptly let out a slightly strangled sound of delight as I realised that it contained something rather different to the normal Nord mead. 'Marcurio, you _didn't.'_

A smirk was playing around his lips. 'And now you owe me even more, on top of the eight times I saved your life.'

'It was six times. I _did_ see that spike trap, no matter what you say. And as for that business in Dragon Bridge, it was completely under control. One hundred percent.'

'Mmm-hmm. So emerging from the mark's house with eight guards and a goat chasing you was all part of the plan.'

'It was a distraction.'

'For who?'

'Don't ask so many sodding questions.' I took another long, glorious sip. 'Seriously, though. How in Oblivion did you manage to get your hands on actual, genuine sujamma?'

'That Khajiit family of yours. I had a chat with your mother, the adopted Khajiit one, I mean, last time she stopped by, and she promised she'd see about getting hold of some. It's probably from questionable origins, but everything to do with you is somewhat questionable, so…'

I savoured a few more gulps before setting the flagon down. 'Thanks. I mean, really. This stuff is pretty much the only thing I miss about Morrowind. Well, that and my hot ex, maybe.'

Marcurio has (somewhat begrudgingly) told me since that he's pretty sure he looked like a kicked puppy for a second after I said that. I honestly don't know whether I was dumb and missed it or whether I saw it and didn't think to say anything about it. I do remember, though, that his voice was quieter than normal when he said, 'I'm glad you like it.'

'Like it? I freaking love this stuff. I'll never get why the Nords don't make it. Perfect way to celebrate the end of my first year in Riften.'

'It's been a good one, from what I've seen.'

I smiled and nodded. 'That it has, my friend. That it has.'

And it was true. Sitting there in the Bee and Barb, with my closest friend across the table from me, my Guild leathers completely unquestioned, the comfortable, familiar chatter of the tavern filling the air, I felt complete in a way I'd never imagined I would, back in the days I traipsed through Skyrim's trading routes after Ahkari. The past year had been the best of my life, without question, and that happiness was like the sujamma. Something delicious that I drank in greedily and that filled me completely.

The companionship was part of it. I've always been someone who likes her time to herself, and sometimes the bustle of the Cistern would get too much for me. But there were quiet places in Riften where I could retreat if I needed to, and most of the time, having so many people around me who were so much like me was… right. I had people to share a drink and a laugh and a story with. People to watch for guards as I worked open a lock, to distract some poor unsuspecting citizen as I slipped a hand into their pocket, to swap grins with me and clap me on the back as we celebrated a job well done. Some were simply colleagues, people I knew and (usually) liked and worked well with. But there were a few, like Sapphire, who could match me for snark almost as well as Marcurio, or Niruin, with whom I'd spent hours at the archery targets, sharing tips and making new arrows, or Rune, who was open and friendly and always a pleasure to talk to, who were my friends.

Friends. I wasn't used to having so many.

And then there was the thrill of the work itself. The rush of adrenaline that came from darting into a shadowed alleyway to escape a guard. The satisfaction that came with the faint clicking sound of a lock opening. The feeling of power that always coursed through me when I pulled back my bowstring, or pulled my sword from my belt, or closed my fingers around a ball of flame.

'It hasn't all been easy,' I remarked, taking another swig of the heavenly contents of my tankard, 'but I've enjoyed it.'

Marcurio raised his eyebrows. 'Surprised to hear you admit that. You make it all look easy. Are you going to tell me that's all a bluff and you're actually dying of nervousness every time you crack open a safe?'

I rolled my eyes. 'I didn't mean the actual jobs. They're easy as winking. It's more… you know, the boss.'

My favourite resident not-a-pack-mule nodded sympathetically. 'He's still giving you trouble?'

'He doesn't give me trouble, exactly. It's not like he bullies me or anything. I just keep getting the feeling that he doesn't like being around me. It's like talking to me makes him want to punch someone.'

'Well, I can sympathise with that.'

'You're hilarious,' I said dryly. 'Thing is, it's not that he says anything bad, it's just that he seems… uneasy. Like he's talking to a Draugr. And he's not the only one. The other day I went to report a finished job to Delvin and he jumped. Like, literally, he jumped out of his chair. And stared at me like I was some monster from the halls of Oblivion the whole time I was talking to him.'

'Again, I find that understandable.'

'Shut up, Marc. It's all the senior members – Mercer and Delvin and Bryn and Vex. Bryn's OK, he talks to me like he does all the others, he just gives me funny looks from time to time, like he's trying to figure me out. But the rest of them… they don't treat me like they do the rest.'

Marcurio's frown was deepening, and when he spoke, his voice had a serious tone I'd rarely heard there before. 'This troubles you, doesn't it?'

'Congratulations, you've noticed something extremely obvious.'

'And you think it's to do with… the way you look?'

I couldn't help but laugh. 'Well, a lot of people have found my looks somewhat distracting in the past, that's for sure. But in all seriousness, yeah.'

I'd explained it to Marcurio, of course, the full story. Ahkari's tale of the mysterious Dunmer in the leather armour, the clues that had led me to Riften, everything. And the way that Brynjolf and Mercer had reacted to seeing my face. What Brynjolf had said about my appearance bringing back bad memories.

'If the problem is that you look like this woman they don't like thinking about, and that you think this woman might be your mother, then maybe you should just talk to them about it. Tell them that you never met your mother. Tell them you'll burn their hair off if you keep treating you like a woman you don't even know.'

I snorted. 'Gods, I'd love to. I don't know, though, it just doesn't seem like a good idea to challenge them about it, it'd seem like I was being defensive or something.'

'You've got nothing to hide.'

''Course not, but… I don't know, Marc. The Guild's been my home for a long time now, and I'm grateful for what they've given me, you know? I don't want to do anything that could… put that in danger. '

Marcurio gazed into the contents of his tankard, brow furrowed. 'You speak highly of that Brynjolf character. Maybe he'd listen, without judging you.'

'He's most likely to, that's for sure.' Brynjolf always gave off the impression that he was keeping an eye on me, but all the same, Marcurio was right. It was Bryn who was most willing to look into my face and hold my gaze, who would praise me the same as he praised all the other Guild members, who sometimes muttered a quick, 'sorry about him, lass,' when Mercer was especially scathing towards me. Maybe if I was honest with him, he'd understand. Understand that it hurt being judged for having a face I didn't choose.

'I haven't given up on finding her, you know.' The words came out more quietly than I'd intended or expected. Uncharacteristically quietly. 'Even if I really am being mistaken for her, and she really did do something so terrible that half the Guild flinches when they see someone who looks like her, I still want to know who she is. Or was. Oblivion, she could be a hagraven for all I care. Even if I have to kill her five seconds after I meet her or something, I just want to know who she is. Who I am.'

There was a moment of silence. Then Marcurio leaned forwards across the table and placed his hand on my arm.

'Mel, if you want to know who you are, the answer's not wandering Skyrim somewhere, it's sitting right here.' He gestured in my direction. 'But… this is important to you, that's clear enough, and if it's going to trouble you this badly, you need to do something about it. Talk to Brynjolf. Talk to anyone. Just take control of it and stop waiting for it to happen.' He released my arm and sat back, looking almost embarrassed at what he'd just done. 'And if you want to know who you are that badly, just ask me, and I can tell you. You're a terrible person who leads her long-suffering hireling into giant camps and Draugr-infested labyrinths.'

This last point was undeniably true, and I let out another snort. 'All right, you've persuaded me. I'll talk to Brynjolf and see what he has to say about the whole thing.' I leaned back in my seat. 'For now, I'm going to enjoy this liquefied gift from the Gods, and see for how long I can tolerate the company of a stubborn pack mule.'

Marcurio gave me a mock glare. 'You know I only put up with you because I can't afford to lose my best client.'

'Best? Surely I'm the _only_ client. No one else could stomach your whining.'

'Well, you should count yourself lucky I can, because no other hireling in their right mind would follow a woman who when discovered in the middle of a Forsworn lair - despite her oh-so-famous stealth skills, I might add - points to the dead Reachman bodies littering the ground around her and shouts, 'Gods, someone must have infiltrated the base! You look over there, and I'll see if I can find them over here!''

'Did it work?'

'Not the point!'

He pretended to glare at me for a moment more, then made the mistake of finally letting out the chuckle that had been building in his throat just as he went to take a sip of his mead. And as he spluttered and coughed, I found that just for a minute, I could forget about my difficulties with the Guild, and laugh.

* * *

'Brynjolf, we need to talk.'

That wasn't how I was going to phrase it, Leo, I swear. On my honour – and yes, I do have some, shut up - I was going to be polite about it. Or at the very least, I was going to be less confrontational. I think I was planning to say something like, 'Can we talk when you've got a moment?' or, 'I really need to talk to you about something.' But whether it was nervousness or fed-up-ness or just finally snapping when I saw Vex shooting dirty looks at me yet _again,_ that's how it came out. Like an order.

And maybe that was for the best in the end, because he seemed so thrown by how firmly I said it that he didn't even argue. He just blinked, shook himself slightly and said, 'What's up, lass?'

The Cistern was quiet; it was one of the busiest days I'd seen the Guild have yet, and just about everyone was out on work. Those who weren't were in the Flagon, sharing a drink and a conversation or two. Even Mercer had moved from his usual place behind his desk to hold a meeting on the surface with Maven Black-Briar. In short, it was the perfect opportunity to ask Brynjolf awkward questions without anyone overhearing. And I intended to make the most of that opportunity.

For the record, Leo, it's a little awkward going up to a guy who's been your teacher and your friend and telling him you've got a problem with how he and his best friends have been treating you. I reckon that's why it came out all wrong when I tried to talk to him. But, thank the Gods, he didn't seem to mind. So I ploughed ahead, silently muttering to myself, _damn the consequences._ This was something I had to do.

'Bryn, I've been here a year now.' We were standing on one of the walkways that ran along the circumference of the central pool, and I decided to seat myself on the edge, my feet dangling so that the very tips of my leather boots brushed the water. That way, he could see that this was a serious talk, one that wasn't going to be over quickly.

Brynjolf stared at me for a moment, then settled himself at my side. 'That you have.'

'Yeah, and you and Vex and Delvin still give me weird looks half the time I speak to you. Well, with you it's half the time. With Delvin, it's about sixty percent. Vex is something like eighty percent, and Mercer… well, Mercer just hates me. And I get it, I can be a bit of an arse, but I swear I'm all right mostly…'

I trailed off. Brynjolf was staring at me with a look that was half questioning and half guilty. And he was biting his lip fairly hard.

After a moment, he shook himself, reached into one of his numerous pockets, and drew out a pack of cards. 'This is gonna be a tricky talk to have, lass. What do you say we lighten the mood with a round of Dragon's Hoard?'

'Deal 'em out, brother.' I watched as Brynjolf snapped the cards down onto the stone in front of us with swift, deft movements. 'So tell me what it's about. I know you know something about why the other senior Guild members keep treating me oddly. And you know that I know that you know. So get on with it and give me some answers. Because I've worked my fingers to the bone doing jobs for the Guild and I'm proud to be here. I'd like to know when that's going to start paying off.'

Brynjolf set the final card down in his deck and gathered up his hand. 'Right, let's start with the three of dragons, and I'll see what I can do. You might not like hearing all of this, I warn you.'

'Four of humans, and I don't care. I want to know. I think I've got a bloody right to know.'

'Probably true. Damn it, I've only got the king of elves.'

'Waste of a good face card. But back on topic…'

He sighed. 'All right, I take the hint. You remember when we first met?'

'How could I forget? I seem to remember you ambushing me from behind and shoving a dagger in my face.'

'Yeah… not one of my finer moments, I admit it.' Bryn, victor of this round, collected up the cards and tucked them into his own deck. 'The thing is, lass, like I said back then, I mistook you for someone else. Someone you happen to look a lot like.'

I dropped the two of beastfolk down onto the bricks in front of me. 'So you mentioned. Fancy telling me who this mysterious someone is?'

Brynjolf let out another sigh, longer and deeper this time. 'She was part of the Guild. Dunmer like you… I mean, really like you, Mel. Your face is… by the Eight or Nine or however many it is, lass, I remember her face pretty well, and yours is almost exactly like it. Your hair's darker, and your eyes are a different colour…'

My breath caught in my throat for a second, and my hand froze with the four of humans hovering an inch above the stone. 'What sort of different colour?' I asked, trying to keep my voice steady, even though I already knew the answer. 'I mean… all Dunmer have red eyes, right?'

'Not her. She didn't. Or doesn't. I don't know if she's alive or dead, and I know this might sound blunt, but it's better for all of us if she's dead.'

It's not a nice feeling, hearing someone you like and trust telling you the woman you suspect to be your mother should be dead. Hope no one ever tells you that, Leo. And not just because it'd be bad news for me.

I placed down my card. 'Four of humans. And what colour were her eyes, then?'

'Purple. Never saw a Dark Elf before or since with eyes that colour, but she had them.'

 _Gods and Daedra. It's her._

I resisted the urge to say, as Ahkari would have, that that shade of purple is called indigo, and instead nodded slowly. 'So… this lookalike of mine, what'd she do that made you hate her so much?'

'She's a traitor, lass. She was one of our most trusted members, back in the day. You've heard the others talk about Gallus, right?'

I had indeed, and of course, I'd been completely in the dark about just how important that name was. How important the man who owned it was.

'Yeah, the old Guildmaster, right? Mercer's predecessor?'

'He was more than that, he was Mercer's best friend. Clever and skilled and brave and devoted to the Guild. Best leader we could have asked for – though don't tell Mercer I said that, OK? Seven of dragons.'

'Nine of humans. So how does he fit into this?'

Brynjolf pursed his lips. 'He should still be with us. He was still fairly young when he died. Gallus should be right here now, at the head of the Guild, and it's thanks to the traitor you've the misfortune to look like that he isn't.'

I breathed in slowly. 'I'm guessing she took the dishonourable part of being a thief a little too far.'

'Dead on, lass. I'm not going into details. Mercer doesn't like people spreading the story around, it still hurts him, even all this time later. But she… she killed Gallus. Tricked him, betrayed him, and murdered him. Mercer saw it happen and made it back to the Guild in time to warn us. And we've been hunting her down ever since.'

I threw the housecarl of elves down in front of me far more vigorously than I had intended.

'Nothing's been the same with the Guild since then. You ask Delvin and he'll say it's because luck's turned against us, but the fact is, Mercer doesn't match Gallus. Don't get me wrong – Mercer's a strong leader and we're fortunate to have him, but Gallus had connections we've lost since he died. And he had a way with people. He was… inspiring. Odd thing to call a thief, but it's the truth. We weren't just his band, we were his friends. When you can make a band of criminals really care about you, you know you're a good leader.'

By this point, I had almost forgotten our card game. Brynjolf was talking about a man who I suspected my mother had killed. How could I be the daughter of someone who murdered a man Bryn spoke of so highly - a man who sounded like someone I would have respected and liked?

'I know it might be a coincidence that you look so much like her, but…' Brynjolf gave my face a long, searching look. 'Melyna, can you name your parents for me?'

Even in this state, I couldn't resist seizing the opportunity for a pun. 'Why do I need to? They've already got names, surely.'

Brynjolf groaned. ' _Lass…'_

'All right, all right.' I swallowed hard, glanced up at my mentor's face, and decided to throw myself on his trust. No matter what Mercer and the others thought of me, Brynjolf was one person I was certain was on my side.

'You probably worked this out already, or at least suspected, but… I lied to you, Bryn. What I said about my parents coming from Blacklight but raising me in Elsweyr? Yeah, that was horse dung. I made that up so you wouldn't be any more suspicious of me than you already were. The truth is, I never knew my parents. Ever. I was raised by Ahkari's Khajiit caravan. And they raised me because I was given to them, by a Dunmer woman who appeared one night and left me with them, saying she couldn't keep me safe if I stayed with her.'

Brynjolf nodded slowly as I finished, and to my relief, didn't reprimand me for my lies. I suppose it would be a bit hypocritical for a thief to scold someone for dishonestu. 'And… how old are you? I know elves don't always look the age they are – not to humans, anyway.'

'Twenty five.'

He let out a slightly shaky breath. 'Gods.'

'What do they have to do with anything?'

'It happened twenty five years ago, Melyna. What happened to Gallus. And _she_ definitely wasn't with child then – not visibly, anyway. Twenty five is the oldest you could be. That is, if you really are her –'

He hesitated, as if he didn't want to say it, the accusation, the thing we were both thinking.

'You can say it, Bryn,' I told him firmly. 'It's on both of our minds, isn't it? You think I'm this traitor's daughter, and so do I.'

There was a long silence. And when I say long, I mean _long._ The kind of silence you start praying for the other person to break. I glanced down at the card I had just played. The housecarl of elves card, I realised with an odd twisting feeling in my insides, was a Dunmer woman, with her painted-on hair half covering her face.

I sucked in a breath and looked back up. 'Brynjolf, believe me when I say, this doesn't change anything, and you don't need to think I'm going to betray you. I've never met the woman. I don't know anything about her. If we're related, and she's a traitor, then I don't give a skeever's ass about her. You know why? Because _this_ is my family, Bryn.'

I gestured around at the empty Cistern. 'The Guild is where I belong. I came to Riften because I'd learned a few things about my mother, and they led me here. I came here looking for her, and I won't lie – I do still want to find her. Just so I know for certain, so I can get rid of the… the mystery, you know? But that's _it._ If it turns out this woman's my mother, then I'm not on her side. I'm on the Guild's side. Because my mother gave me up, and you took me in.'

Brynjolf stared at me for a few seconds, then nodded again. 'I can understand that, lass. And I believe you.'

This made me feel an odd twinge of warmth. 'Thanks.'

'In fact, lass, I won't tell Mercer, unless you want me to. If he knew just how likely it is that you're her kid… he'd probably turn you out, and we need you here. Things have turned up since you arrived. You're a damn good thief and a valuable part of the Guild. I've no wish to see you gone.'

I spent a moment biting back a smile, then shook myself. 'OK, that's enough soft stuff. King of humans. Can I just ask one thing, though?'

'Damn it. You win this round, lass. And go ahead.'

Gathering up the cards I'd won, I met Brynjolf's eyes. 'What's her name?'

He looked away, sighing. He knew who I meant.

'Karliah,' he said at last.

I closed my eyes. Finally, I had something. Not just something about what she'd done, but something of who she was. A name. The name of the person who had named me.

And a new thought occurred to me now, one that made me start in surprise as if the realisation had snuck up behind me and jumped out at me. I had spent all this time looking for my mother, simply because she was the only one I had clues about. I had nothing to help me find my father, and so I had barely thought about him.

But now I knew who my mother was…

'Brynjolf,' I said slowly. 'Did she… did Karliah have…' I stopped, sucking my lip, unsure how to say what I wanted to. 'Do you have any idea who my father might be?'

Disappointment crashed through me as he shook his head. 'No. She wasn't close to anyone in the Guild – not that I could see, anyway. Now, Ma'rhaz – you never knew him, he was part of the Guild, died before you joined us – he had this theory that she and –'

He stopped suddenly, and bit back the end of the sentence, shaking his head. 'Never mind.'

But I was on the scent now, like a hound determined to track its prey despite the difficulties in following the trail. 'She and…?'

'No, lass. Forget I said anything. I was letting my thoughts run away with me more than anything else.' He spoke lightly, but there was a firmness in his voice that made me certain that no matter how hard I pressed him, he wasn't going to tell me how that speech would have ended. 'Even assuming that murderer is your mother, I don't have the foggiest idea who your father might be, and frankly, I don't want to start making theories.'

'Unlike your old friend Ma'rhaz.'

Brynjolf chuckled. 'He was a sharp-eyed one, but he didn't always see what he thought he saw.' Another sigh escaped him. 'Karliah owes us her blood for what happened to him, too. We lost a lot of people because of what happened to Gallus, Mel, it wasn't just our leader who bit the dust because of Karliah's treachery. Ma'rhaz, Dar'zha, Elandine, Ahsla, Thjon… they were my friends, and they're gone now. I don't know how much of it was just bad luck, or not having Gallus around any more to keep everything in order, but it was when Gallus died at Karliah's hands that things fell apart, and when things fell apart, I lost people I thought of as brothers and sisters.'

'So what you're saying is, whether I share blood with this woman or not, I shouldn't feel any kinship to her.'

'Dead on, lass. Because, honestly? She doesn't deserve it.'

He dropped a card down on top of my own. And I returned to the game with my head buzzing and my mouth firmly shut. It wasn't just the sudden barrage of information I'd been given; it was that I didn't trust myself to say anything more. The thing was, I'd promised Brynjolf that I was being honest, but in fact I'd lied to him again.

 _My mother gave me up, and you took me in,_ I'd told him. It was a fact, but it wasn't all I felt.

Because I knew Mercer well enough to know that if he ever caught my mother, he would kill her. And no doubt if he'd found me with her – the daughter of his mortal enemy – he'd have put an end to me too. And while this might sound crazy, I don't know… I felt grateful to her. The traitor who'd murdered a good man and brought the Guild to its knees. Because she'd given me up rather than keep me with her and keep me in danger.

There had to be more to her than a traitor and a murderer. There had to be more to the story. Even after what Brynjolf had said, I couldn't find it in me to hate this woman. There might still be more I didn't understand, that even Bryn didn't know.

'Before I forget lass, Mercer's got a job for you,' Brynjolf said suddenly. 'You know that heist Vex went on a few days ago?

I nodded. 'Goldenglow, right? Didn't she make it out with wounds to both body and pride?'

'That's about it. But the job needs to be done, and Mercer needs someone to do it.'

'What makes you think I'll do better than Vex? I mean, she tells me pretty much every five minutes she's the best break-in expert the Guild's got and don't I forget it.'

Brynjolf snorted. 'True, but while Vex's is the best we've got at cracking open locks and sneaking in through windows, her combat skills aren't as strong as they could be. You're a fine thief, Mel, but you're a good fighter on top of it. When Vex got caught, she got hurt. If you get caught, I reckon you can fight your way out. Think you can handle it? You and your boyfriend?'

I froze for a moment, then threw the card I was holding at him. 'Marcurio's not my boyfriend.'

'I've heard that line before.'

'Shut your face. He's not.'

'Mmm. So the guy who follows you around on every mission, who you run off to the Bee and Barb to drink with rather than buying your mead from the Flagon like the rest of us, who gets Morrowind-made sujamma imported for you and who you bicker with like you're an old married couple is definitely not your boyfriend.'

Fair warning, Leonardo: Dunmer blush just like humans. It's harder to see, but it's there, and I know for a fact that just then, my cheeks were practically on bloody fire. 'What the Oblivion, Bryn? What are you, some fourteen-year-old girl? And – how did you know he got me sujamma?'

'Lass, we're in Riften. I know everything.'

I glanced down at the card he'd just played, and yanked another out of my deck. 'Right, you know what? For that, I am going to kick your arse. Ace of dragons.'

* * *

So you know how they say that when you're in a hole, you should stop digging? Well, we've already established that I never listen. Which means it shouldn't come as much of a surprise to you, Leo, to hear that only a few hours after Brynjolf mocked me mercilessly for constantly visiting the Bee and Barb to chat with Marcurio, I was right back there doing exactly that.

The truth was, I needed to talk to him. Him, specifically. Marcurio was someone outside the Guild, someone who I could trust. So I waited for over an hour in that crowded inn, waiting for him to appear, and when he did, I dragged him into a corner and told him everything that Brynjolf had just told me. And this time, I told the whole truth.

'No matter what she's done, I still want to meet her,' I explained, and he nodded with sympathy I'd not really seen him show much before, and told me that he understood and that if I needed his help with anything, I knew that he was right here.

'You'd be lost without me after all, admit it,' he added, smirking, and I pretended to hit him.

The next day, we both headed off to Goldenglow.

It's strange to think just how many beginnings this story has. It started the moment my mother pressed me into Ahkari's arms, that snow-bound night all those years ago. It started when I set off alone into the world, and when Teldryn and a thief in Bravil gave me the clues that led to my coming to Skyrim, and when Brynjolf sprang at me in an alleyway with a dagger clutched in his fist.

Here is another beginning to the story: when I pried open Aringoth's safe and uncovered a note revealing that the estate had been sold. When I discovered that some elusive adversary was trying to undermine my Guild.

Isn't it weird how sometimes, two stories that don't seem to have anything in common with each other can just come together, their threads intertwining so neatly that you can't tell where one story ends and the next begins? That's how this one goes. It seemed like I was the hero of two stories - the family drama of a girl finding her mother, and the mystery crime thriller of the promising young thief uncovering the conspiracy against her beloved Guild. And then the threads began to intertwine.

Oblivion, who am I kidding? I admit it, I just wanted to use the fancy intertwining metaphor, but honestly, it wasn't like that, a slow realisation that the stories were linked. Maybe I was slow on the uptake or something, but I never thought the two paths I was following could be one and the same until one specific moment. One moment when everything fell together… or crashed together. Like two snowballs rolling down a hill, smashing into each other and making one large snowball, one that picks up speed and weight too fast and goes hurtling out of control.

Now _there's_ a metaphor for you.

The moment came one month and a few Guild jobs later. When Mercer called me to him and told me he had a lead on the Guild's mysterious opponent and he wanted me to take charge of finding the truth, I had no idea what was going to come of it. I felt none of the ominous feeling of foreshadow-y dread that you're meant to feel. In fact, I felt a twinge of pleasure that my Guildmaster – who I still couldn't quite take to, but who I nonetheless respected, who I wanted to trust me – was putting his faith in me, for such an important task.

And so Marcurio and I travelled to Solitude, talking and laughing and occasionally engaging in verbal battles as the cart lurched along the road. I admit, sometimes I found myself looking at him, and noticing little things, like the way his dark hair caught the sunlight or the patterns that the leaves above us made on his face, and remembering what Brynjolf had said. And then I would turn away quickly and silently mutter darkly to myself.

 _He is an apprentice wizard, not my boyfriend. And he's irritating._

We headed to the Winking Skeever inn, found the Argonian man sitting alone in a corner, and marched towards him in our most business-like manner. And here it comes, Leo. Here's the moment.

The moment when he glanced up at me and said, 'I didn't think I'd be seeing you again. Thought you said business was concluded. Did the Thieves Guild find out about – '

And then he stopped, taking a closer look at my face.

My blood iced. Because once before, someone had taken a swift glance at me and mistaken me for another, only realising his mistake when he saw that my eyes were the wrong colour. And that person had been Brynjolf, on the day I entered Riften.

Hear that, Leonardo? That's the sound of those story-snowballs smashing into each other.

And yes, of course I put Mercer's questions to the guy, and of course I asked him who he'd mistaken me for. But I got nothing. So we left the inn, found a hiding spot nearby, and waited for him to emerge. And the moment we started our waiting, I turned to Marcurio, grabbing him by the arm. 'I wasn't imagining that, right?'

'That whole thing with him mistaking you for someone, who seemed to be the person he'd been doing shady Guild-related business with? No. And I think I already know exactly where your thoughts are heading.'

'It's too much of a coincidence!' I admit, I was almost shouting, hardly being subtle. I would have blown the whole thing had Gulum-Ei emerged from the inn then, but luck was on our side. 'My mother's some mysterious, almost certainly Guild-related woman. And now, we're chasing another mysterious, Guild-related woman and the first person we find who's actually laid eyes on her mistakes me for her? Gods, back when I was with the caravan, Ahkari even told me she could tell I would grow up to look like my mother, and she only saw the woman for a few hours. This is the same person, Marc. I've bloody found her.'

'Yeeees,' Marcurio said slowly, in a tone of _slow-down-Mel-there's-something-you-haven't-thought-of-yet._ 'But only a month ago, you were telling me all about how your mother was probably the murdering Guild traitor. Not _exactly_ someone we should be glad to have run into again – in the context of her doing all sorts of sabotage-related things to the Guild, I mean.'

I let out a huff. 'Point taken.'

Marcurio nodded. 'At risk of sounding like one of your bosses –'

'Oh, please. Like that could ever happen. We all know who the boss is in this partnership.'

'Yes, yes. Anyway, what I was going to say was, the important thing to your Guild's going to be that the person who's trying to bring them down now is the same person who killed their leader twenty five years ago. Not good news, Mel.'

'Yeah, I get the picture.' By now I was pacing up and down, hands clasped behind my back – I probably looked even more crazy than normal. 'But freaking Oblivion, Marc. That slimy lizard's spoken with my mother. Days ago.'

Marcurio raised his eyebrows. 'You can't be sure it's her yet.'

'I don't bloody care.' My pacing grew more feverish. 'We're following that scaly idiot and we're getting the truth from him. End of story.'

He knew better than to do anything so dumb as disagree with me when I was in this kind of mood, so he just nodded and said nothing. Years later, that's still his preferred tactic for dealing with my rants.

I was like a thing possessed when it came to tracking that Argonian down, Leo. Once we followed him inside that network of caverns and found a pack of bandits or mercenaries or something standing between us and him, we burned through them like wildfire through crops. I was going straight for kills, targeting eyes and necks and hearts, and if an enemy got close enough for me to have to engage them with sword and spell, my fire spells seemed stronger and fiercer than normal, as if they were feeding on the adrenaline pumping through me.

And when we found Gulum-Ei, I think he could see the danger in my eyes.

'Now, there's no need to do anything rash,' he said, holding up both hands as I advanced on him, sword drawn. His voice was high with fright. 'This isn't as bad as it seems. I was going to tell Mercer about everything, honestly! Please – he'll have me killed!'

As it happened, I was under strict orders not to kill the guy. But he didn't need to know that.

'Mercer doesn't need to enter into it,' I spat. 'I'll be the one having you killed, unless I know everything you know in a minute's time.'

'Please, you don't need to – '

'Just shut up and answer my questions. Who was she? The person you mistook me for – she's the one who's been after the Guild, hasn't she?'

He swallowed. 'How do you know?'

'Because it's blindingly obvious, you nut. And I look pretty much exactly like her, don't I?'

I was rewarded with a hesitant nod. 'Well, your hair's a little darker, and her eyes were a different colour, but otherwise – '

 _A different colour._ Gods, it couldn't be coincidence, not now. Ahkari had told me my mother's eyes were not the normal Dunmer Red. Brynjolf had said that the traitor Karliah's eyes were purple. And here was Gulum-Ei, speaking of a Dunmer with oddly-coloured eyes. These three people had to be one and the same.

'What's her name?'

Argonian faces can be hard to read, but I know that he was frowning. 'Did Mercer never tell you about -?'

I dropped my sword and lunged forward, seizing the man by the lapels of his jacket and slamming him against the wall with one hand, and closing the other around a handful of flames.

' _Tell me her name!'_

My voice echoed and re-echoed from the walls of the cavern, and as the sound of my words faded away a heavy silence fell, broken only by the faint crackling of my spell. Gulum-Ei, squirming in my grasp, fell still.

'You're insane,' he whispered after a moment. 'Why does this mean so much to you?'

I met his eyes for a moment, then released my grip on the collar of his tunic. He crumpled to the ground, wincing and hissing with pain as he landed on his tail. Rubbing his bruises, he stared up at me, and I stared back. My face was impassive, but inside, I was stunned. Stunned at myself. I'd never known anger like that before, unthinking anger that simply took hold of me and made me want to rip to shreds anything that stopped me from getting what I wanted.

The fire in my hand was still licking at the air. I curled my fingers inwards, snuffing it out.

'Just tell me her name,' I said. Even to myself, I sounded tired.

Gulum-Ei blinked a few times, drew in a breath, and told me the name I'd already known that I was going to hear.

'Karliah,' he said. 'Her name is Karliah.'

* * *

 **Snow Veil Sanctum will be happening next chapter. I'm looking forward to this. I hope you enjoy what's to come... and thanks for reading!**


	5. Thicker Than Water (And Thieves)

CHAPTER FOUR – THICKER THAN WATER (AND THIEVES)

Two days later, I was waiting for Mercer outside the Riften stables, preparing to embark on what would be the longest journey of my life. I'm speaking figuratively, of course. In terms of actual distance, I'd made journeys a darn sight longer. But I'm not talking about the twelve-hour ride from Riften to Snow Veil Sanctum. I'm talking about the fact that when I finally returned to Riften from the Sanctum, almost everything about my world had been changed.

I've said a few times already, Leonardo, that you don't get some great ominous, inexplicable feeling of foreboding before something bad happens. That's stories, not real life. But I have to admit that on this one occasion, I felt something. It wasn't inexplicable, of course. I knew exactly why I felt what I did, the cloying sensation of mingled dread and eagerness that churned in my gut. It was because I was going to find the woman I suspected to be my mother, and because this woman was a traitor, and because I had no Gods-damn idea what was going to happen when I found her.

Marcurio was sitting on the stable wall next to me, shooting a glance at me every minute or so. I wasn't under any illusions that Mercer would let him come. By now the whole Guild knew that I worked with him on most of my solo missions, and no one had an issue with that. But Mercer was unlikely to want an outsider brought along on such a sensitive mission, and I wasn't about to argue with the Guildmaster.

It was comforting, though, to have the person I trusted most in the world beside me while I tried to prepare myself for whatever the heck was in store for me.

'There's another thing I don't understand,' I said, watching the Redguard stable-hand throw bundles of hay over the stable doors to the waiting horses. 'Mercer still doesn't trust me. And why should he, when the person we all think's my mother has just turned up out of the blue and started trying to rip the Guild apart? If anything, he should be more suspicious of me than ever. So why's he taking me along? Bryn said it was all about trying to keep everything just between him and Mercer and me so the rest don't panic, but…'

'Maybe it's a test.' Marcurio fiddled absently with a clump of moss growing on the wall. 'Maybe he's taking you along _because_ he thinks you're Karliah's daughter, not despite it. He gets a good look at the both of you, it'll be obvious whether you're really related, or whether he's just imagining things. And then, either you side with her, or you side with him.'

I frowned. 'I don't know. You think he'd be willing to risk fighting the both of us at once? I mean, everyone says he's a good swordsman, but… _that_ good?'

It was an odd thing to think about. In my line of work, the vast majority of the people I fought were bandits, or guards who'd had only a very basic training or none at all. I'd got used to the feeling that Marcurio and I outmatched the lot of them, that we were never really in danger even if outnumbered. The thought that Mercer might think so little of my skills that he'd be willing to take me on even if I had backup… well, that stung a bit.

'Well, maybe he does trust you. And he's just doing as Bryn said and trying to keep it contained.' He gave me a small nudge. 'Do you always have to expect the worst, miss pessimist?'

'No. I usually expect to flounce in and win, since that's what I always do. But this is different. It's not some heist, it's the mother I've been wanted to find since I was eight years old. I know I have Ahkari, and I love her, but I've got to know who I am, Marc. And I don't want it to end with me having to kill her – or her killing me, for that matter, for pretty obvious reasons. I definitely don't want it to end before I can get any answers. It's just…' I sighed, pursing my lips. 'There's a million ways this could go wrong, and honestly? I'm bloody scared.'

I didn't often admit something like that, show weakness like that, and Marcurio knew it. His face softened, and he slid a little closer to me.

'You can handle this, Mel,' he said quietly. 'Even if you don't have me around to do most of the work for you this time.'

I glared at him.

'Trust me, you can see this through. However it goes down, you can cope with it. If it goes pear-shaped, come to the Bee and Barb and we'll both get drunk as Nords at New Life Festival until you've forgotten about it. And if it all turns out fine, come to the Bee and Barb anyway and we'll get just as drunk to celebrate.'

I couldn't help cracking a smile at this. 'Sounds like a plan to me. If only I knew what 'going fine' would actually be. I mean, best case scenario is I get to meet my mother, I find out it's all been some big misunderstanding and she's innocent, and we can all go home happy. But seriously, how likely is that to happen?'

'It's about as likely to happen as the Thalmor suddenly announcing that they love all races equally and that from now on they'll be walking around the streets handing out sweetrolls. But you never know, there's always a chance.'

For a moment, I chuckled along with him, then stopped as I saw the city gates open and a familiar figure in black leathers stride through them and head for the stables. I sucked in a breath, glanced at Marcurio and jumped down from the wall.

Reaching us, Mercer cast a narrow-eyed gaze over Marcurio for a second or two, then turned to me and declared, 'Your boyfriend can't come.'

'He is _not_ my boyfriend,' I snapped, then, remembering this was my leader I was speaking to, added, 'I get it, boss. Secret business and all that.'

'It's a Guild mission for members of the Guild,' Mercer told me, his voice his usual growl. 'No mage hirelings.'

'That's fine. Didn't expect any different. Just thought it was worth bringing him along to ask you,' I said quickly. 'Marc and I work well together, is all.'

My Guildmaster folded his arms. 'Well, now you can learn to work well un-together.'

'Got it.' I couldn't help but feel a little wave of irritation sweeping over me – the Guild knew that Marcurio and I were a team, and if they had trusted him so far, the least Mercer could do would be to send him away with some semblance of politeness. Sure, Mercer was never polite to anyone, really, but… I felt Marcurio deserved better.

'I suppose I'll see you when you get back, then.' Marcurio had stuffed his hands into his pockets in a display of nonchalance, but his brow was furrowed, and I could tell that he was no more happy about Mercer's decision than I was. 'Try not to walk into any spike-filled traps. Don't press buttons that have 'do not press' metaphorically written all over them. And…' He hesitated. 'Don't die. You're my best client, after all. I don't want to lose my most reliable source of income.'

I snorted. 'That all I am to you, huh?' Before he could answer – and Gods only know what he would have said if I'd had the sense to wait for him to do so – I gave him a light punch to the shoulder, grinning. 'Come on, I'll be fine. I'm travelling with the Guildmaster.'

He gazed at me for a second, then gave a single, sharp nod. 'I hope everything goes well, Melyna. I'll be in the inn.'

'Thanks,' I said, because he knew he was talking about more than the mission going well. He couldn't tell me, _I hope you find your mother,_ not in front of Mercer. But Marcurio and I had become pretty skilled at saying what we needed to in situations where we couldn't talk openly, or indeed when we couldn't talk at all.

Mercer was beginning to glare, so I gave Marcurio one last smile. 'See you soon, pack mule.'

He rolled his eyes, raised a hand in farewell, and set back off towards the city gates.

I wish I hadn't cut across him before he could answer that question, the one about what I was to him. Would he have answered, answered honestly, with Mercer standing right there? I don't know. But as long as he said something other than 'yes,' then maybe it would have set me thinking, thinking properly, about what he was to me. Maybe I'd have told him that the reason I wished he could come along wasn't just because we made a good fighting team. That it was because I trusted him and felt safe around him in a way I didn't with Mercer. Maybe I'd have told him that I knew that if everything went wrong in Snow Veil Sanctum, it would be easier to cope if I had him there with me.

Maybe I'd have told him that I was afraid, and he made me feel braver.

But I was younger, and I was an even bigger idiot than I am now, so all those things were left unsaid as that orange-robed figure headed back towards Riften. And yes, everything worked out in the end, but Divines above, but it terrifies me sometimes to think of just how close I came to leaving those things unsaid forever.

* * *

Nord tombs are unpleasant places at the best of times, but I think the two hours or so that it took Mercer and I to sneak and battle our way through the Sanctum were the most unpleasant of my life. Honestly, Leo, I think I enjoyed giving birth to you more, and I didn't have a fun time of that at all, for the record. Now I think about it, there are parallels. Having you, and trawling through Snow Veil: both had a flipping incredible end result. But to get it, I had to go through complete and utter bloody Oblivion.

Draugr are a nightmare, for one thing. And I mean that in both the _they're difficult to deal with_ and the _they're horrendous monsters_ sense of the word. Creepy as heck, with those glowing eyes and those hissing voices, and the fact that they just… keep coming. Shoot 'em right in the papery mess that's what left of their heart, and they keep coming. Put an arrow in the eye socket and they keep coming. Like one of those Dwemer automatons, lurching towards you, never getting distracted, never tiring, never feeling pain. I've never been more grateful that Teldryn urged me to learn fire magic, because even the simplest flame spell has a Draugr crumpling to ash within seconds. And Mercer clearly knew how to deal with the creatures, because he wasn't trying to stab or slash them, the way a beginner might. He was dismembering them, slicing the heads and legs and weapon arms off at the bases, smashing what was left.

For all that, though, his presence added to the unpleasantness of the whole ordeal. I should probably say, it wasn't that I disliked him, not then. That wasn't it at all. Mercer was my boss, the underworld king, a man with ten times my experience. I respected him, looked up to him. I'm ashamed to admit it now, but that's the truth.

The reason that being around him put me on edge was that I wasn't used to fighting alongside a man like him. Mercer was not Marcurio. The first thing in the mind of my snarky apprentice wizard was always to cover my back, to keep me safe, to throw up a ward if an arrow came my way, to send lightning bolts at an enemy that drew too close to me. He had to keep me alive - I was his meal ticket, after all.

Mercer wasn't like that. Mercer was a man who covered his own back and left me to watch my own. If I was fending off attacks from four Draugr and he was only facing one, there was no point expecting him to disengage from his opponent and come to my aid. He didn't pull me back from traps as Marcurio would have, he just said 'trap,' and I'd have to pull up short before I blundered into it. And yes, whenever Marc did his get-away-from-the-trap yanking thing I could almost invariably snap at him to let go of me – but there was something touching about his concern. Mercer showed none of that.

I told myself it was only to be expected, that of course a thief didn't act like a hireling. But still, it made me feel uncomfortable. Unwelcome. Like I was there only to help kill Draugr, and later Karliah herself. An extra weapon, not a person.

So the sight of the puzzle door was almost welcome. Experience with these ruins had taught me that the puzzle doors are normally set at the end. Happening upon one means that your journey through the gloomy halls and passageways is almost over, that you've reached the heart of the tomb and whatever treasure you came seeking – be it riches or a traitor or a mother – is close at hand. I quickened my pace as we headed down the corridor, glad to nearly be rid of the Draugr and the company of my surly Guildmaster. Maybe he'd lighten up once we'd dealt with Karliah, I thought, and thinking the name snapped me back to reality.

This wasn't just another dungeon crawl. I'd delved into dozens of these places and emerged with jewels and coins in hand, but this was different. I wouldn't be faced with some powerful undead to fight at the end as I normally was – I would be faced with a woman who might or might not be my mother. And I might have to fight her, even kill her.

I glanced at Mercer. He was poor company, but nonetheless, he was my leader, the man who kept the Guild I loved together. My loyalty was to him, not to my mysterious, absent mother. And yet I wanted so badly for there to have been some mistake, for the woman waiting on the other side of that door to be innocent.

You know what they say about being careful what you wish for? There's a reason for it, Leo. Even if you get it, it doesn't always come the way you expected.

While I was standing there like an idiot, trying to wrestle my thoughts into some kind of order, Mercer was busy examining the puzzle door. _Hmm_ ing under his breath, he ran his fingers along the engraved metal circles, tracing the edges of the central panel. 'Without the matching claw, they're usually impossible to open,' he muttered, tapping the claw slot. 'And since I'm certain Karliah already did away with it, we're on our own.'

'Great.' My voice was heavy with sarcasm, but there was a trace of truth in there. The closer I got to whatever happened once that door opened, the more I found myself wanting to run from it. 'So… we could try knocking. Ask politely. See if she'll let us in for a chat and some revenge.'

Mercer let out a snort. 'Not a bad idea. But fortunately, these doors always have a weakness, if you know how to exploit it.'

So saying, he drew something from his pocket. I was standing a short distance behind him, and he kept his hand tightly clasped around whatever it was, so I didn't get a close look. From the brief glimpse I got, it looked to be some kind of lockpick, brassy-coloured, and with some kind of pale blue-green stone set at the end, like the pommel stone of a sword. Mercer inserted the enigmatic item into one of the cracks between panels of the door, and twisted it slightly – and with a faint click, followed by a low rumbling sound, the door lurched downwards. Bit by bit it sunk, until it was gone, and nothing but an empty doorway stood between me and… my mother? My enemy? Someone completely unrelated to me?

Do you remember, Leo, how I said that I hate being helpless? Well, that was the worst part of this. Whatever was about to happen, I had no control over it. And it was that uncertainty that… I won't lie to you. It bloody sodding terrified me.

So when Mercer gestured for me to take the lead, I didn't question it. Can you believe that? I didn't question it at all. Maybe I told myself he wanted me to go first because elves have better eyesight. Maybe I didn't think about it at all. My thoughts were in such a mess than I strode right across the doorway. I wanted to get this over with – needed to get this over with.

I've actually been looking forward to writing this, you know. The moment when my life went shooting off in a different direction. Let's just hope I can do it justice.

I walked across the doorway. Marched, even. Bow in hand, eyes scouring the murk up ahead for any sign of movement. It was a tall, wide chamber, lit a little by a shaft of dusty light streaming in through a hole in the ceiling. Ahead of me was a broad set of steps, leading up to an elevated area whose back wall was invisible in the darkness. A small patch of snow had gathered on the floor below the opening in the ceiling.

I pulled an arrow from my bow and aimed it towards the steps – if I were Karliah, I thought, I would be lurking in the darkness there, waiting. It occurred to me, suddenly, that I hadn't thought to ask Mercer what kind of fighter the woman was. Because if she were an archer, I might be in trouble if –

There was a faint hissing sound. A sound I might not have detected if I hadn't had the sensitive ears of an elf, or if I hadn't heard the same sound almost every day of my life as I sent arrows flying from my own bow. It was a sound I recognised instantly, a sound that made me reel backwards with a loud curse – but not fast enough.

The arrow struck me on my left upper arm, just underneath the padded shoulder-guard that would have protected me had the shaft hit just an inch higher. I suppose the downside of fighting someone who belonged to your own Guild is that they know all the weak points of your armour.

I was prepared for the pain; I'd been shot before. What I wasn't prepared for was the suddenly feeling of cold that swept over me, as if the arrowhead had split as it entered my flesh and now tiny shards of freezing metal were in my blood, burrowing down to my very core and spreading ice into my veins. I reached up to the arrow, knowing that the best way to deal with a wound like this was to snap the shaft so that the arrowhead wasn't pulled out to leave an open wound - but halfway there, I saw my hand simply stop. Fingers locking in place, unresponsive and still.

And suddenly my legs were cold and dead too, and everything in me was out of balance, and I was crashing to the ground. I'm not sure how fast all this happened – I think it was all within the space of a single second. So perhaps it was the momentum from the arrow that made me fall, so that I sprawled on my back with my head, thankfully, turned towards the chamber ahead.

I lay there, screaming at my body to move, and meeting with no response. The chill of the stone floor reached my flesh even through my leathers. Footsteps sounded behind me, and I felt a sudden jolt of relief – I had almost forgotten that Mercer was there. But he did not bend down to see if I was breathing, nor did he even glance in my direction. He simply stepped over my prone form and strode further into the chamber.

I watched – what else could I do? - throwing silent curses in Ta'agra at my Guildmaster's back. The dread that had been churning in my gut was becoming a knot of fear, real fear. I had been afraid of having no control over what happened, but this was a new kind of helplessness, and it was a thousand times worse.

There were actually quite a few benefits, I was later to discover, to being shot with an arrow whose tip had been dipped in a paralysis. But at that moment, I knew only one: I was in a perfect position to be a spectator to everything that happened next.

What happened next was that Mercer stopped walking and stood in the centre of the cavern, one hand resting on the hilt of his sword. And ahead of him, a figure melted out of the shadows at the top of the steps. Every step was as silent as if it had been made with a Khajiit's bare, velvet feet. And indeed there was something altogether catlike about the woman who ghosted down the stairs, in her lithe build and measured, fluid way of moving. This was someone who was used to life in darkness and silence.

My eyes, of course, went straight to her face, but she was too far away, the cavern was too dimly lit, and in any case, a hood concealed most of her features. But I could tell that Mercer recognised her, because he stiffened, and from the cloud of vapour that floated up from his mouth, I could tell that he was letting out a long breath, one he'd probably been holding in for some time.

I noticed, as Karliah reached the foot of the steps, that she had a bow in her hands. I would have swallowed, if I'd had any command over my body. Here she was at last, the woman who might be my mother – and she held the same weapon I favoured.

Mercer seemed to notice what she was holding at the same time as I did, because his grip on his sword hilt tightened. 'Do you honestly think your arrow will reach me before your blade finds your heart?'

The reply came, in a voice thick with a Morrowind accent and taut with anger. 'Give me a reason to try.'

My thoughts were sluggish and seemed to resent being brought to my mind at all, and I was sure that whatever poison was freezing my limbs had slowed my heartbeat. But at any other time, I was sure it would have quickened. Gods and Daedra, if this was my mother, I had finally, finally heard her speak. Was it that quiet, fierce that had been the first to speak my real name?

'You're a clever girl, Karliah.' Mercer had started to pace back and forth like a Senche-tiger waiting to pounce, never taking his eyes from Karliah's face – nor his hand from the hilt of his sword. 'Buying Goldenglow estate and funding Honningbrew Meadery was inspired.'

Karliah remained motionless – almost as motionless as me. 'To ensure an enemy's defeat, you must first undermine his allies,' she said. 'It was the first lesson Gallus taught us.'

What kind of woman was she, my maybe-mother? What kind of woman would wait twenty five years to finish a vendetta, and would make such an elaborate trap, and would throw the lessons of the man she murdered at his best friend as she finally confronted him?

Mercer was pacing, still restlessly pacing. 'You always were a quick study.'

I saw Karliah's slim figure tense, every muscle becoming poised and tight, as if she were a bowstring suddenly drawn back and made rigid, ready to fire. And when she spoke, there was a fire in her voice that made my thoughts – in turmoil, slow as they were – suddenly go still and quiet. As if even my subconscious knew that _something_ was going to happen. Now.

'Not quick enough,' she almost hissed, 'or Gallus might still be alive.'

Sorry for my language, Leo. I know I said I wouldn't swear in this. But what I thought in that moment was something like, _what the actual shit?_

It wasn't just the words she said. It was the bitterness behind them. More than that – fury. As if twenty-five years' worth of seething hatred had boiled up to the surface and charged her words.

Mercer stopped pacing, as suddenly as if he'd walked into a wall. There was something painful about the sudden stillness.

'Gallus has his wealth,' he snarled, 'and he had you. All he had to do was look the other way.'

Even in the darkness, and from a distance, I could see the shudder that ran through Karliah's body. 'Did you forget the oath we took as Nightingales? Did you expect him to simply ignore your methods?'

Mercer let out a short, mirthless laugh. 'And what of your methods, Karliah? Why don't you tell me what you were trying to achieve by sending the girl?'

 _The girl._ I think my insides would have twisted if any part of me had been capable of movement. _He means me._

There was a pause before Karliah responded. 'What girl?'

'Did you think she'd earn my trust? Help lead me into your trap?' There was an odd note of something like triumph in Mercer's voice now. 'Maybe you should have checked who you were shooting.'

'I sent no one!' Karliah snapped. 'Which should hardly surprise you, since you're the reason I've spent the last twenty five years alone –'

'Enough of this mindless banter!' Mercer wrenched his sword free from its sheath with a metallic hiss that echoed a dozen times from the walls of the chamber. 'Come, Karliah. It's time for you and Gallus to become reunited.'

For a moment, I forgot that I was paralysed, because even with my limbs frozen, I tried to rise. I needed to be on my feet, I needed to have my weapon in hand, I needed to help. My thinking was still laboured and half of what I'd heard I barely understood – but I knew one thing. Karliah was not the enemy here. Mercer was the enemy, the man I'd called my Guildmaster was the enemy, and now he was advancing, blade bared, upon the woman who I thought might be my mother.

So I tried to move, but of course, nothing happened. All I could do was bellow in my head in Mercer's direction. _Don't hurt her, bastard. Don't you dare hurt her._

But I needn't have worried. Karliah made no move to reach for her quiver. Instead, her hand dropped to her side – digging into a pocket, perhaps – and as she raised it, I glimpsed the light glinting on the glass of a potion bottle. The question of what kind of potion it contained was answered a moment later, as she lifted it to her lips and tipped it down her throat – and vanished.

'I'm no fool, Mercer.' The now-disembodied voice was soft again, and I realised that she was retreating into the gloom at the far end of the chamber. 'Crossing blades with you would be a death sentence. But I can promise – the next time we meet, it will be your undoing.'

Silence fell as she finished speaking, and it stayed, until Mercer spat, turned, and marched over towards me. He kept his sword drawn, and I screamed silently to the woman who'd vanished into the shadows across the cavern from me. _Help me. Azura's mercy, I'm your daughter. Freaking help me._

But no one appeared like a gift from a merciful Divine to stand in the path of the man who strode over to me. Who loomed over me with a smirk playing around his lips.

'How interesting,' he drawled, twirling his blade slowly in his hand. 'It appears Gallus's history has repeated itself. I suppose it runs in the family, being stupid enough to walk into this place and think you can escape my blade.'

He pushed my head up with his foot, the better to look into my face. He stared down at me for a few seconds, and his lip curled.

'I don't know what part you were really playing in this, and honestly? I find it hard to care. But just in case you thought I was fooled, I always knew who you were. I know whose brat you are, I knew the moment I saw you. And now your mother has provided me with the means to put an end to you, just as I did your father. You and he can share a resting pace. Maybe they should rename this place, call it the Desidenius family tomb.'

He laughed harshly at this, but I was barely listening. Gods. I'd come here hoping to confirm my mother's identity. And suddenly I'd learned my father's.

'But do you know what intrigues me the most? Whatever you were really doing with the Guild, this was all possible because of you. And once I catch up with your mother - because rest assured, I will - it'll be thanks to you that it'll be finally over.' Mercer knelt beside me, pressing the tip of his sword against my stomach, and sneered down into my face. 'Farewell, Melyna Desidenius. Give your father my regards. I'll be sure to give your boyfriend yours.'

And he punched the blade down into my chest.

I felt no pain. Perhaps it was the poison, slowing everything in my body, fogging my mind. Or perhaps it was the fact that as Mercer drove his sword into my flesh, there was no room in my head for any pain-related thoughts to surface. Because there was only one thought in my mind in that moment, a desperate silent scream.

 _Don't hurt Marcurio._

But I could only hold that thought in place for a second. The whole world was slowing, my vision was clouding, and even the stone floor beneath me seemed to be giving way. I let it go. I didn't have the strength to hold on.

And everything vanished, like my mother, into shadows.

* * *

Here's a life tip, Leonardo – try to avoid life-threatening injuries. Aside from the whole _life-threatening_ thing, there's also the fact that waking up after one is like waking up from a hangover. In short, you feel like shit.

Damn it. I might just have to give up on the whole 'not-swearing' front, kid. It's just instinctive.

But take my word for it, it's not a pleasant experience. There's a cloying feeling of lingering pain. Your head's pounding. And the worst part is that you're afraid to open your eyes. Because the last thing you remember was death moving in to take you. You thought you'd wake up dead, and you're alive, and the one problem with that is that you don't know where the hell you are or how you can still be breathing.

So when I realised I was alive, I lay very still, eyes tightly shut. Blocking out sight meant that I could use my other senses to bring me a sense of where I was, so that I could prepare myself for whatever was waiting for me.

I became aware, quickly, of two sounds: the unmistakable crackling of a fire, and the faint keening of wind. I was outside, then – and, I realised with distaste, somewhere bloody cold. Stretching out my fingers, I felt scratchy cloth against my skin, and beneath it the softness of snow. There was a blanket over me, I realised, and from the fact that the wind I could hear wasn't reaching me, I had to be in some kind of shelter.

Which meant that I couldn't be alone.

Slowly and cautiously, I opened my eyes. I'd been right – I was lying inside a small, open-ended tent, made from animal pelts sewn together in a rough patchwork. The blanket I was lying under had been ripped and repaired so many times that it was more stitching than fabric, and the same was true of the bedroll I was tucked inside. Peering out of the end of the tent, I saw a grey sky thick with clouds. A light snow was falling.

Directly in front of me, a few metres away from the tent, a fire was burning, the flames flickering bravely against the wind and the snow. And seated beside it, back facing me, was a figure I recognised instantly. Obviously female. Slender build. Tattered Guild leathers with a hood drawn up against the weather.

I let out a long, slow breath. Somehow, I wasn't surprised that she was the one who had saved me.

Pushing back the blanket, I wriggled free of the bedroll, stopping and wincing when pain shot through my chest. I had, I realised, been stripped to the tunic and breeches I'd been wearing beneath my leathers, which were folded on the ground beside me, and so I could lift up my shirt and examine the wound Mercer had dealt me. Nothing remained of it now but a thin line, ash-grey against my darker skin. I traced it with a fingertip, my eyes wide. Gods, some powerful healing potions had been at work here.

Dropping my tunic, I glanced up. Karliah must have heard me moving, but she wasn't looking in my direction.

Gazing at her, still and unspeaking beside the fire, I felt none of the fear that had plagued me as I made my way through the Sanctum. Maybe it was because I had nothing to be afraid of any more, not now I knew that she was no traitor, no murderer, no mother to be ashamed of. She was on my side. She had seen – she must have – how much I resembled her. Though it occurred to me, suddenly, that I still hadn't actually seen her face, that I'd only heard people tell me I looked like her. When she finally turned around… I'd see, at last.

Breathing in deeply, I grabbed my boots and jacket, pulled them on, and headed out of the tent. The silent woman at the fireside tensed, but still didn't turn. So I stood behind her for a moment, thinking hard. What the hell did you say to the probably-parent who'd just saved your arse from your backstabbing boss?

In the end, I decided to start with the basics. I coughed, just to make sure she knew I was there, then said, 'Hey. You're Karliah, right?'

It occurred to me once I'd said it that it was an immensely un-dramatic, un-powerful thing to be the first speech she ever heard her daughter say. If I'd been in a work of fiction, no doubt I'd have come up with something better. But I never claimed to be great at keeping to literary tradition.

There was a short pause, while the woman by the fire clasped her hands together. Then she spoke, in that quiet voice I remembered so well from the Sanctum. And what she said told me instantly that all my suspicions – and Brynjolf and Mercer's suspicions – had been right.

Because what she said was, 'Yes, Melyna. I am.'

A shudder ran through me, and I felt the hairs on my arms prick. 'And… I'm going to guess that you know that name because you're the one who gave it to me.'

Another silence. And then, at last, she rose to her feet, pulled down her hood, and turned to face me.

'I did,' she whispered, and her voice was thick with tears.

* * *

 **And next chapter, there will be some long-awaited mother-daughter bonding! I originally planned to continue the conversation in this one, but it was turning out too long; rest assured, it will come soon.**

 **I've been looking forward to this chapter for a while. The Snow Veil Sanctum scene is one of my favourites in the game, and I very much enjoyed writing it, especially adding the little tweaks in dialogue. I hope you think I did this scene justice - any feedback, even just, 'don't worry, you did OK' would be very much appreciated! Thank you for reading. :)**


	6. For Love Or Money (Or Both)

CHAPTER FIVE – FOR LOVE OR MONEY (OR BOTH)

On one of my early Guild heists, I stole a small silver looking-glass from the house of some pompous noble. It wasn't our target, just yet another shiny object that had caught my eye. I often have an irresistible impulse to slip anything that looks remotely valuable into my pockets, and the mirror was one of them. And I won't lie – I spent an unhealthy amount of time looking into it. Not out of vanity. No, I was trying to imagine just how similar my features were to my mother's.

And now, I had my answer. Because the face of the woman now looking at me... I'd seen it before. I'd seen it in that mirror a hundred times. We Dunmer age slowly, Leo, even half-bloods like you and I, and so there was little of the lining on her face that would have been there on a human of her age. It was weathered, yes, far more weathered than mine. But everything else… nose, brow, chin, everything – it was all the same as mine, or as close to the same as made no difference. Oblivion, even our eyebrows curved in the exact same way.

There were only two glaring differences. One was the hair, a few shades lighter than mine. And the second was the eyes. Not the normal Dunmer crimson, but a deep purple that Ahkari would have called indigo.

I'm not sure how long it was that we simply stood there, staring at each other. We were silent, but there was no awkwardness, no embarrassment, in that silence. Here I was, standing in front of my mother, and here she was, standing in front of her daughter, and I knew that she wanted this moment to last as much as I did.

At last, she looked away, the purple gaze flicking downwards. 'I owe you an explanation,' she said heavily. 'Several explanations.'

'It's all right. I think I've already figured out most of it.'

'Let me explain anyway. I won't feel right unless I try.'

She seated herself beside the fire again. I dropped down next to her, regretting the quick movement instantly as my recently-healed wound throbbed resentfully. Hissing angrily, I pressed a hand to it – and when I looked up, my mother's hand was held out in front of me, a potion bottle nestled in her palm.

'It'll dull the pain,' she said.

'Thanks. Really.' I snatched up the bottle, uncorked it, and took a slow sip of the contents. It was sour enough to make me flinch my tongue away, but after only a few swallows, I could barely feel the pain in my chest any more.

'I've learned one thing about you today, if nothing else,' I remarked, corking the now-empty bottle. 'You're one heck of an alchemist.'

Something flitted across her face that might have been close to a smile. 'Thank you. My mother taught me.'

I froze for a moment, almost dropping the bottle. Quite suddenly, I had a grandmother. Quite possibly a dead grandmother, but still, family. More family. In one day, I'd gained a mother, and a father, and a grandmother, and… how many others? Who else might there be who shared my blood, who I had yet to learn about?

'She the one who taught you how to make a scarily effective paralysis poison?' I asked, passing the empty flask back to her.

My mother shook her head. 'No. That was my own invention. It took me a year to perfect, and I only had enough for a single shot.' Her jaw clenched. 'All I had hoped for was to capture Mercer alive…'

I bit my lip. She'd been waiting twenty five years for this. She must have been planning that moment in the Sanctum for painfully long. And then I'd ruined it, just by being there.

'Why _did_ you shoot me?'

She sighed. 'For whatever difference it makes, I didn't realise it was you. I had no idea who you were until Mercer said what he did… about me sending you. And as soon as I got a look at your face…' She paused, shook her head, and went on. 'But once I saw Mercer had brought backup - once I realised he was hanging back… I didn't have a clear shot. I made a split-second decision to get you out of the way, and it prevented your death.'

'Couldn't you have waited a second more? Until Mercer came after me?'

'I didn't realise it was you,' she repeated. 'You were a Guild member I didn't know, and if I'd waited, then I was giving Mercer a chance to bring loyal backup with him. If I hadn't been able to convince you that Mercer was the traitor, I'd have been fighting two at once.'

I nodded slowly. 'Yeah. Makes sense. For the record, though, there is literally nothing I hate more than being helpless. So let's not make this a regular thing, or anything.'

'I've no plans to.'

We sat in silence for a few moments more.

'So go on, then,' I said eventually. 'Tell me. Tell me everything.'

'Where should I start?'

I spun my multitude of questions around in my mind, and landed on the one that Mercer's words as he stood over me in the Sanctum had brought to me. 'Start with my father. It was Gallus, wasn't it?'

I wasn't prepared for the sudden look of agony that flashed over her face. It lasted only a moment, but I think even a Falmer could have spotted it. And I realised then that I'd not been the result of some careless fling. That much, much more had ended than a life when Mercer betrayed his Guildmaster in the Sanctum a quarter century ago.

'Yes, Gallus was your father.' She was determinedly not meeting my eyes now. 'He never knew about you, Melyna. Even I didn't know that I was carrying you until after he was dead. If he'd known… I'm sure he would have refused to go to Snow Veil Sanctum when Mercer asked him to.'

Though I was sure I already knew the answer, I found myself asking, 'Did you love him?'

She turned her head back to look at me. 'More than life.'

I closed my eyes. The thought of watching someone I cared about that much dying in front of me, killed by the hand of someone I'd thought was a friend, being helpless to stop it, and then being framed for his murder… it was painful to think of it. Agonising, even. And oddly, when I tried to imagine it, the murdered man had a black ponytail and amberish-brown eyes.

I shook my head, as if to clear the vision from it. 'So I'm a half-blood.'

'Does that trouble you?'

'Nope. I kind of like it, actually. Bit unusual.' I grinned. 'And it gives me a reason for being so terrible at being a Dunmer. So… what was he like? I mean, I've heard the Guild talk about him, but…'

This time, she did smile, if sadly. 'He was… an incredible man. A scholar, a master thief and a natural leader.'

'A scholar?' I echoed.

'He was a genius. He spoke at least four or five languages. Sometimes he'd deliberately organise heists that he thought could let him get his hands on some kind of ancient artefact for him to study.'

'And he was still a thief?'

'You're with the Guild. I'm sure you've come to realise during your time amongst them that the last thing a thief can afford to be is a fool.'

'Touché, I guess. Just never really saw a thief hit the history books before.'

Another small smile tugged at her mouth. 'He enjoyed the history books, certainly. But he was a thief for the thrill of it, just as I was. Just as you are, perhaps.'

I snorted. 'Oblivion, yes.'

Now the smile was full on her face, and I found myself returning it readily. Here was something I'd inherited from my parents. Here was something that I shared with them, despite never having known either of them until today. Gods above, it felt good to know that I'd taken after them, at least in one way. Perhaps I'd find more.

'He was a kind man,' my mother said softly. 'The Guild's always had rules against killing because it's bad for business. But Gallus hated to see anyone killed because he thought it was wrong. He never organised heists against people too poor to cope with the loss of coin. He cared for his Guild as if every one of them was a younger sibling, even though the eldest were decades and even centuries older than he was. Everyone respected him and obeyed him without question. And me… I loved him. He told me once that he felt comfortable around me, able to let his guard down. I can't help but think I'm to blame for what happened to him.'

I stared at her. 'You're serious?'

'Almost always.'

'How in Oblivion can you be to blame? Mercer lures him here, stabs him in the back, and you think it's your fault?'

She drew up her knees against her chest, wrapping her arms around her legs. It was as if she was closing in on herself, shutting out everything that could be hurt if left exposed.

'You don't know the full story yet,' she said. The words were hoarse. 'I will tell you everything, but… it'll take time. I've barely spoken to a living soul in twenty five years, and… it's not going to be easy learning to trust again. Even my own daughter.'

She winced as if she expected me to lash out with harsh words and tell her this was stupid, that I deserved better. But I didn't. If any feelings of offense rose inside me as she spoke, they vanished as she said the final word. _Daughter._ There it was, out in the open, spoken aloud for both of us and the Divines to hear. She'd acknowledged what we were to each other, and I found I couldn't be angry with her.

'I think I get it,' I assured her. 'I mean… after what happened with Mercer, I'm not surprised trust isn't something you're giving away in free handouts.'

She glanced up, frowning. 'You're being very generous. I expected you to be angry.'

'What the hell about?'

'Maybe the fact that I abandoned you days after you were born and stayed out of your life for a quarter century, only coming back into it by accident.'

My eyes narrowed. 'You can stop that kind of talk right now. You didn't abandon me. Abandoning me would have been dropping me in the wilds for the wolves.'

'I still let you go.' Her voice was barely audible now. 'You were days old. You were all I had left of your father. I was all you had in the world. And I gave you up at the first chance I got. There's not been a day since when I haven't regretted it. I kept telling myself that once I'd put an end to Mercer, I could come and find you, but –'

' _Stop it.'_ I inched closer to her. 'Look, I'm not angry with you, so you've no good reason to be angry with yourself. You had the entire sodding Thieves Guild hunting you down, and I know how stubborn and well-connected they are. You had that bastard Frey trying to kill you. It's not like you just dumped me with an evil laugh. You gave me to a Khajiit caravan – you know, some of the greatest survival experts in Skyrim – to stop me from being hunted down and killed by the guy who'd already killed my father. It seems pretty bloody reasonable from where I stand.'

She bit her lip. 'I told myself the same thing. That I couldn't care for you properly while I was on the run from the Guild, living in the wilderness. I told myself having a child to look after would make me slower, easier to catch. That Mercer would kill you if he got the chance.'

I gave a gentle tap to the scar on my stomach. 'Yeah, I reckon recent events proved you were right about that last one.'

'But it didn't make it any easier. And it hasn't got any easier. Even if it was reasonable, you're my child and I gave you to strangers. I sometimes wonder if I was lying to myself. If my reasons for giving you up were more selfish.'

'Like?'

'Like the fact that I didn't feel capable. I'd just lost Gallus, my friends and my life with the Guild to Mercer's betrayal. Then I found that I was with child. Nine months of carrying you. And just so you know, you weren't easy to give birth to.'

I couldn't stop myself from snorting. 'That doesn't surprise me. I've heard many, many variations on the theme of 'you're extremely difficult' over the years.'

Another almost-smile flickered across her face, and I couldn't help but feel a burst of triumph. Getting her to smile seemed like some great achievement.

'I was young, in pain, very afraid, and completely on my own.' My mother shook her head. 'Women aren't known for being particularly emotionally sound after they give birth. I gave myself all the noble reasons – that I was giving you a better life, I was keeping you safe – but I think perhaps it was just that I couldn't cope.'

I shrugged. 'Well, so what? It was still a sensible thing to do, whatever the reasoning was. And the caravan looked after me.'

'That's… a relief. They promised they would, but I always feared –'

'Yeah, OK, so stop fearing now. They were good to me. Ahkari, the head trader? She took me under her wing, raised me and all. She was like a –'

I broke off, suddenly realising that the planned end to that sentence might not be the most sensitive thing to say in the present company.

'Like a mother to you?' the present company finished for me. 'You can say it. I'm not going to get offended.'

'Well, I don't know why you keep expecting _me_ to get offended, then.' Smirking, placed my hand flat on the ground behind me, ignoring the snow, and leaned back. 'Maybe you should trust that I've inherited more stuff from you.'

Now she did smile, properly smile. 'I can't say I'm not looking forward to seeing just how much of myself I've managed to pass on. And seeing how much you take after your father.'

'Then make a deal with me,' I said. 'The deal's this: you stop beating yourself up about shit that happened twenty five years ago-'

She cut across me, a faint look of amusement in her eyes. 'You don't seem to have inherited your language from me or Gallus.'

'You're gonna have to get used to it, 'cause it's my favourite word. That and _sodding._ Runners-up are _freaking_ and _bloody.'_

She chuckled softly. 'I suppose I'm twenty five years too late to start policing your manners.'

''Fraid so. Anyway, the deal is, you stop angsting about all that sh…stuff. Then you and me get to work on finding the son of a skeever who made all this mess happen, and we make him pay for it. We put a plan together for doing that right here, right now, and then while we're putting it into action, we can learn about who exactly we are. Sound good?'

'Definitely.'

I held out my hand. She took it. And instead of shaking it, she squeezed it tight, breathing out slowly as if in disbelief that after all this time, she was finally able to touch me. She met my eyes, and I could tell that she wanted the same thing that I did. Closeness. To hold and be held.

She reached out a little way, but quickly snatched her hand back. 'May I -?'

And what was I supposed to tell her, that she wasn't allowed to hug the kid she hadn't seen in twenty five years? I know I can be a bit of a bitch, but I'd never go that far.

I didn't leave her in any doubt about it. I pretty much threw my arms around her. And she let out a sound that was half a gasp and half a sob and pulled me close, as close as she could get me. I pressed my head against her shoulder, like I used to with Ahkari, except this wasn't Ahkari, this was the woman who'd given birth to me. Perhaps she was twenty five years late, perhaps I was cold and tired and still hurting from a stab wound in my stomach, and perhaps we still had a long way to go before either of us really knew who the other was. But it didn't matter. Suddenly, none of that mattered at all.

'So,' I said, a little faintly, as we let each other go. 'Do we have a deal?'

'We do.' She dipped her head. 'And you'll be pleased to know I've already made a start on the plan front. My purpose in using Snow Veil Sanctum to ambush Mercer wasn't merely for irony's sake.'

She pulled a battered leather back over to her, and, after rummaging around inside for a few moments, drew out an even more battered-looking book. I leaned over to get a clearer look. The cover was faded brown, with a metal symbol embossed upon the surface. Like a bird, with its wings reaching up to encircle a shape that might have been a sun or a moon.

My mother her fingers over the cover, then pressed the book into my hands. 'This was your father's.'

A sudden hot feeling rose up my throat and pressed against my eyes. I swallowed hard. I was _not_ crying, I told myself. It meant so much to me – it meant the world to me – to have something that had belonged to him, to be holding a book that he had held too. But I was not crying. Absolutely not.

'It was his journal,' my mother explained. 'I recovered it from his… remains.'

'Right. Must have been enjoyable.'

'It wasn't.'

'That was sarcasm.'

She nodded. 'I thought so. But you may find I'm a little rusty at detecting it after twenty five years outside society.'

'Don't you worry. Spend five minutes around me and your sarcasm detection abilities will be working overtime.'

I went to pull the book open, but my mother shook my head. 'There's nothing in there, I'm afraid. Not in any language I recognise.'

I flipped the thing open anyway. Not because I didn't believe her – I did, and she was right. The words that filled the pages were formed of odd, spiky symbols, vaguely reminiscent of the script used in Morrowind. But it didn't matter to me. What mattered was that my father's hands had formed them. That place, just there, where the ink was smudged – his hand must have brushed against it as he wrote. I pressed a fingertip against the spot, as if trying to conjure up a ghost of his presence by touching something that he had once touched.

Slowly, I flicked through the pages. 'You think that he might have written about what happened with Mercer?'

'Something tells me Gallus already had his suspicions. In the weeks leading up to his death, he seemed… preoccupied. He wrote about everything in his journal, things he didn't tell anyone else. If there's evidence that Mercer's a traitor, we'll find it in there.'

'Which means we need to get this insane writing translated, right?'

She nodded. 'I was thinking… Enthir. Gallus had a friend at the College of Winterhold. They studied the language together. If we went to him, he might be able to help.'

'Can we trust him?'

'Completely.'

I snapped the book shut. 'So. To Winterhold?'

'Yes. But not yet. There's something here that needs to be done.'

She turned her head away. I followed her gaze, back towards the Sanctum, and understood.

'He's still in there,' I murmured. 'He's been lying in a sodding Draugr pit all this time.'

My mother's jaw was clenched. 'Yes. And he has to be laid to rest.' She glanced back at me. 'This won't be a pleasant task and… you never knew him. If you want to head to Winterhold with the journal and leave this to me –'

'Not happening.' I pushed the book back into her bag. 'He was my father. I don't care that we never met. I wouldn't exist without him.'

Another ghost-smile flitted over her face. 'I hoped you'd say that.'

She rose to her feet. 'Your weapons are over there; you'll be needing them, if we're heading back into the Sanctum. There are probably a few Draugr left.' Her expression grew thoughtful. 'I notice you carried a sword as well as a bow.'

'Yeah. Archery's what I'm best at, but I'm a bit of a jack-of-all-trades. I swap to the blade when people get up close. Even learned a few fire spells to go with.'

She nodded slowly. 'In that case…'

I watched as she bent down and lifted something from the snow. As she dusted the flakes from it, I saw what it was – a sword, silvery metal with a carved ebony hilt. Not merely carved, I realised a moment later, but carved into a shape. That of a bird, with wings spread upwards towards a circle. The same symbol that had been on the cover of my father's journal.

'It was his, wasn't it?'

She nodded, holding it out to me. 'He always used this sword, for as long as I knew him. I think… I know that he would have wanted you to have it.'

My throat feeling suddenly tight, I wrapped my hands around the hilt and lifted it from her hands. It was of a similar length and weight to my own blade; comfortable and familiar-feeling. Carefully, I twirled it in a few looping shapes, and it cut through the air with a sleekness I'd never known any weapon to have before. It seemed to meet with almost no resistance.

'That's one hell of a blade,' I murmured. And then, remembering that it was not just a sword but the sword my father had used, I gripped it a little tighter. This weapon was mine now. It felt like a very… _family_ thing to do, to pass a weapon down from parent to child.

 _My father should be the one giving this to me. He should be here with me. With us._

I breathed in deeply, and headed over to where my weapons had been stacked neatly against a rock. The bow and quiver I slung over my shoulder, the dagger I tucked into my belt, but the sword I pulled from its sheath and dropped into the snow, replacing it with my father's blade.

'I've just decided something,' I announced.

My mother's eyebrows raised. 'And what's that?'

'I am going to bloody kill Mercer bloody Frey.'

A look of steely determination stole into her eyes. 'Good. We're in agreement, then.'

'Well, you know what they say. Like mother, like daughter.'

And, wearing matching smiles that quickly faded, we set about our task.

We burned what was left of my father. We didn't have the time or the tools to bury him. I wished it could have been more, the sort-of funeral that we gave him, more than a hurriedly-made pyre that took three attempts to light, since my fire spells found it hard to catch on the snow-sodden wood.

There was no time to make speeches. My mother had probably spent the last twenty five years promising his memory that she'd avenge him, telling him that she still loved him. I could see those things in her eyes as she watched the flames rise up. The grief, the anger, the resolution.

There was nothing left but bones, Leo. That was what we had to carry out of that tomb. I remember standing there as the pyre burned, thinking of those bones, and realising that there had been flesh on them once, that they had been a body that had breath and life in it. Arms that had held my mother. Lips that had kissed her.

Those arms should have held me, too.

 _You're dead, Frey,_ I snarled, as we turned our backs on the sanctum and started out through the snow towards the north. _You're Gods-damn dead._

* * *

If I could have, I would have ridden straight back to Riften to put my father's sword through my former Guildmaster's stomach, but there were far too many good reasons why I couldn't. No horses, to begin with. Mercer had killed my mother's horse before we entered the sanctum, and he'd done the same to mine upon emerging. Clearly he wanted to save himself the trouble of escorting a riderless horse back to Riften.

The second reason, of course, was that my mother was right. We needed proof of Mercer's treachery. My word alone wouldn't be enough, not when none of the senior members had ever fully trusted me. No doubt Mercer had returned to the Guild by now and was telling them all about how I was their old enemy's evil daughter, a spy the whole time.

I'm not going to recount every detail of our journey to find that evidence, Leo. It took us days. Enthir told us that my father had penned his journal in the script of the Falmer, and directed us to Markarth. There, he said, we might find aid from a scholar of the Dwemer and Falmer cultures. We didn't, and needless to say this ended up with us breaking into the scholar's museum, sneaking through it, stealing a rubbing of some fancy tablet thing with the Falmer script inscribed on it, and evading the guards to escape. Normal day in the life of a professional thief, just with more than usual at stake.

That's not the important part of the story, really. The important part is that it took us three days to travel to Winterhold, and then to Markarth, and then back to Winterhold to find Enthir to translate the journal for us, and finally back to Riften. And I spent those three days getting to know my mother.

We turned it into a sort of game. As we travelled along the twisting Skyrim roads I'd come to know so well from my days with the caravan, we would take it in turns to share something about ourselves - or, for her, occasionally something about my father. Whatever we said would be discussed and questioned. And so each of us slowly learned who the other was.

'I speak fluent Ta'agra,' I told her, for example, as we steadily trekked back towards Riften. 'Ahkari made sure I learned the common tongue too – you have to know it, if you're a trader – but I grew up speaking Ta'agra to the rest of the caravan.'

'I never considered that,' my mother said, frowning slightly. 'It didn't occur to me that you'd be raised speaking a different language.'

'It never caused me any problems. Except the accent. That tends to get me some odd looks.'

She smiled. 'It's not all that noticeable.'

'Freaking good to hear it. Guess I've got better at dropping it, since I've been living around humans for a year. Well, humans and the odd elf. Your turn.'

She sucked on her lower lip for a moment before speaking. 'Gallus was fluent in Ta'agra, too. He was friends with some of the Khajiit caravans. That was part of the reason I felt safe leaving you with one; Gallus had trusted them.'

'You said he spoke four or five languages. What were the others?'

'He could speak Dunmeris. Often did with me, if he wanted to say something that he didn't want others around us to hear.' She gave me another one of her fleeting smiles. 'The others… I'm not sure I can remember, now. It was so long ago.'

'I barely speak a word of Dunmeris,' I admitted. 'I lived in Morrowind for a few years, but all those weird traditions, the great houses, the kind-of-annoying custom of calling any strangers _outlander_ until you started hearing the word in your sodding sleep… I couldn't take to it.'

She sighed. 'I've never been to Morrowind.'

'What, never?'

'No. I told you the other day that I was born in Shor's Stone. My mother raised me and taught me the thief's trade, then sent me to the Guild when I was old enough. I never travelled far outside the village until then. And once I was with the Guild, I had no reason to travel beyond Skyrim.'

There was silence for a while as she finished speaking, a silence that was suddenly broken by the distant bellowing of a dragon somewhere over the mountains. My mother tensed instantly, one hand flying to her bow, but when no sound of wingbeats broke the still air of the evening, her body slowly relaxed. It was something I'd noticed about her over the few days I'd spent in her company; the slightest sound, the tiniest threat of danger, would set her on edge.

I guess that's what comes of being hunted for twenty five years. Every time I saw it, I mentally conjured up an image of Mercer, and imagined shooting an arrow into his skull.

'Have you ever seen one up close?' My mother's eyes were still turned to the sky, flicking warily from left to right, and I knew she was waiting for a winged form to sail up from behind the peaks. 'A dragon, I mean.'

I couldn't stop myself from grinning. 'Hell, yeah. I was at Helgen a year ago.'

She glanced at me, frowning. 'Helgen?'

'Oh, right. Of course, you wouldn't know. That was the first dragon attack since… you know, forever. Huge black beast just swooped down out of the sky and just laid waste to the whole town. Ripped towers apart with its bare claws. Sent houses up in flame. Wiped out the whole place.' I chuckled. 'And saved my life, incidentally. I'd got myself arrested by the Imperials. They were kind of distracted from executing me when a dragon practically fell on their heads.'

'I can imagine,' my mother said drily. 'How did you make it out?'

'Skill, courage and determination. Plus luck. Plus there was a Stormcloak soldier who gave me a hand, though I did kind of dump him as soon as we got to Riverwood.' I rubbed the back of my neck. 'Still feel a bit guilty about that. His sister asked me to take a message to Whiterun for her. I told her I had better things to do, and pissed off to Riften.'

'What better things were those?'

'Joining the Guild. I was looking for you, remember?'

For a moment, she smiled. Then a shudder ran through her, and she jerked her head to the side as if it hurt her to look at me. 'You spent half your life trying to find me, and I never even tried –'

'Hey. I thought we agreed you were going to shut up about that. I don't care.'

' _I_ care. I feel that I let you down.'

'Well, stop it. I don't blame you for it. And things are working out fine, aren't they? We've got the journal translated, and it proves Mercer's guilty as a… guilty… person. Whatever. We kill that bastard, and we set things right. Sure, we missed out on twenty five years. But Dunmer live long lives, right?'

'I wish I'd been there for you when you were growing up.'

I snorted. 'Nah, you don't. Ahkari says I was a nightmare. Cried non-stop and threw up on her expensive blanket imported from Cheydinhal.'

She made a noise that was suspiciously close to being a laugh. 'On second thoughts, perhaps I did dodge an arrow there.'

'Exactly! See, it's all working out for the best. As long as Mercer hasn't screwed things up for us somehow by the time we get back to Riften.' I gritted my teeth. 'Gods, as far as I'm concerned, we can't get back there soon enough. He's going to be calling me a traitor to every friend I made. Or telling them I'm dead. Probably both. And Divines only know what he's told Marcurio –'

I snapped off the sentence. I didn't want to think about it. _I'll give your boyfriend your regards,_ Mercer had said. What if he thought Marcurio was a danger to him? What if he tried to - ?

My mother was frowning at me. 'Who's Marcurio?'

I hesitated for a moment before reply. 'He's this… guy. Mage hireling I met a year ago in the inn. We work together on most of my solo missions - it never hurts to have the backup, right? He's basically the most irritating person to ever breathe, but he's OK.'

She said nothing in response to this for a while, but her expression grew thoughtful, and then suddenly, uncharacteristically mischievous. 'You know, Gallus loved to read. And he told me more than once that in all the stories, the more a woman insists that she hates a man, the more likely it is that she's actually fallen for him.'

I let out an embarrassingly undignified yelping sound. 'What the actual Oblivion? Just – _no!_ You've not been my mother long enough to start trying to pair me off with people!'

She was smirking now, definitely smirking. 'From the name, I'd guess he's an Imperial.'

'Yes. What does that have to do with anything?'

'And you said that he's a mage… mages tend to be quite studious, don't they?'

'Well, he reads, and he knows a load about magical theory, but I don't get why –'

'Dark and handsome?'

I gaped at her, then shook myself and decided I might as well humour her. 'I… fine, sure. Black hair. Brown eyes, sort of amber-ish.'

She gave a single, firm nod. 'Then it would seem the women of our family run true to type. I fell for a dark and handsome, intelligent Imperial man too.'

' _Shut up, mum!'_

* * *

I've been asked since if I was nervous, returning to the Guild that day. Walking into the Ragged Flagon knowing that Mercer must have been there already, slandering my name. Knowing that he'd have told everyone I was dead, and that to them, I'd be like a treacherous ghost.

But honestly? No. I wasn't nervous. I was done with being nervous. It was as if all the nervousness in me had been used up as I stood in front of the puzzle door in Snow Veil Sanctum. By the time I reached the door to the Cistern, I was not even the slightest bit nervous. What I was was freaking angry.

'Mercer Gods-damn Frey!' I roared, smacking the door open with my foot.

The Cistern is a bloody brilliant place for echoes, I'll tell you that. My words must have rebounded half a dozen times from the domed roof. There was a moment of silence as the final echo died away, a silence that was quickly filled with the sound of running feet.

My mother glanced at me, her expression more than a little incredulous. 'Melyna!'

'What? It's not as if this is a stealth mission. Is this going to be my first parental scolding?'

'No time.' She nodded towards the three leather-clad figures emerging from one of the Cistern's side rooms and racing across the walkways towards us. 'Let's hope luck is with us.'

Though the Cistern was dimly lit, there was light enough for me to make out that of the Guild members approaching us, once had a thick mop of red hair, another a shock of lightning-blonde, and the third, next to no hair at all. 'Brynjolf, Vex and Delvin,' I muttered. 'No sign of the man himself. What do we do if he does show?'

'The same as we'll do if he doesn't – show the Guild your father's journal and hope for the best. Remember, we have proof, and all he's got is his word.'

I can't say for certain, but I think that I inched a little closer to my mother as the others drew near us. I'm fairly sure that I was simply trying to show that we were together in this, that they would have to go through me to hurt her. I definitely didn't do it because I wanted to know that my mother was close to me in case things went wrong. Definitely not.

The three senior Guild members drew to a stop a short distance in front of us and, in near-perfect union, whipped their daggers from their belts. Brynjolf took a step forward, indicating for the other two to stay put, and - as he'd done so often before – peered closely at my face. Then he turned his eyes to my mother, and studied her with equal concentration. His eyes widened for a moment – then narrowed almost to slits.

'So Mercer was right,' he growled, his fingers tightening around the hilt of his dagger. 'I should have known all along. Gods, I _did_ know, the moment I set eyes on you in the marketplace. And I brought you down here all the same, let you sit here spying on us, knowing you were her daughter.' He jerked his head in the direction of the woman who stood next to me. 'I _trusted_ you, Mel. So you'd better have a damn good explanation for being here with that murderer who's your mother, or –'

'She has a very good reason.' My mother's voice was practically ice. 'And we'll discuss it, Brynjolf, once you stop pointing a dagger at my daughter.'

There was so much ferocity in the words – so much pure threat – that Brynjolf seemed to obey before he really knew what he was doing, lowering his hand so that the dagger, while still gripped firmly, was no longer extended towards my neck. 'No tricks. Either of you. Or we'll cut you down where you stand.'

'Try it,' I snapped.

My mother shot me a sharp look, and I held up my hands. 'Fine. I'm staying calm. This is me, being very calm. Now let's prove to them that Mercer Frey is a jackass so that I can go and find him and tear his head off.'

She was almost smiling as she reached into her pack and pulled out the journal. 'Here, Brynjolf. We have proof that you've all been misled.'

He glowered at her, showing no signs of taking the book from her hands. 'What sort of proof?'

'This bloody sort.' I grabbed the journal and thrust it in his direction so fast that he had pretty much no choice but to take it. 'Read the effing book, Bryn.'

For the record, I didn't actually say effing, and my mother raised her eyebrows. 'Language, Mel.'

Brynjolf flicked open the book, and glanced up at us with his brow furrowed. 'What is this?'

'It's Gallus's journal.' My mother folded her arms. 'He wrote it in the Falmer script. You want to look at the translation of the final few pages.'

He duly flicked through the pages until he came across Enthir's translation. Delvin and Vex slowly crept up behind him until one was peering over each of Brynjolf's shoulders. He frowned and shot looks at them, and they inched back again.

'And how do I know that this is an actual translation, and not something you've made up?' Brynjolf demanded, holding the translation up to the light. 'Your brat's been lying to the entire Guild for a year – very convincingly, I might add. I'm not inclined to just believe anything either of you say.'

'And I'm not inclined to react well to you calling her either a brat or a liar,' my mother snapped back. 'To answer your question, if you read the translation, you'll know that it was Gallus who wrote the original. You can't have forgotten the way he used to speak. It's him in every word, Brynjolf.'

'It is?' I muttered, as Brynjolf bent his head and began reading, mumbling the words under his breath.

She nodded. 'The main thing is, he says _perimeter_ rather than _edge_ and _replete_ rather than _filled._ He was always doing that. To Gallus, there was no reason to use a word if there was a more interesting one that could replace it.' A slightly mischevious look came into her eyes. 'Do you remember that time he called you vituperative, Vex?'

Vex glared.

'What the heck's vituperative?' I demanded.

'I haven't the slightest idea. Gallus claimed that it meant, 'prone to highly abusive criticism,' but he might have been having me on.'

Vex opened her mouth, most likely to throw some highly abusive criticism at us, but at that moment, Brynjolf let out a sharp exclamation – no words, just shock. Every head snapped around to face him, and I felt my heartbeat quickening ever so slightly. This was the moment, then, when we were either believed or disbelieved. And if it was the latter, words wouldn't get us out. Arrows were the only things that could do that.

'No, it… it can't be. This can't be true.' Brynjolf thrust the translation notes back inside the journal and slammed the book shut. 'I've known Mercer too long...'

'You didn't know that bastard at all,' I spat.

'Melyna. That won't help.' My mother met Brynjolf's gaze with rather admirable calm. 'I assure you, Brynjolf, it's true. Every last word.'

'Every last word of what?' Delvin demanded, inching forward and extending a hand towards the journal. Brynjolf slapped his fingers away.

I took a step towards them – my three teachers and Guild siblings who were, right now, my greatest enemies. 'How about I just say it all nice and simply? Mercer's the traitor. He's the one you should have been hunting for the last twenty five years. My mother didn't kill Gallus. Mercer did.' My hands clenched into fists. 'He killed my father.'

Brynjolf's eyes stretched wide open, and Vex let out a string of stunned expletives. Delvin frowned at me and tilted his head on one side. 'Before I even start asking myself whether or not you're telling the truth about Mercer killing Gallus… where does your father come into this?'

A pause; then Brynjolf turned to him, shaking his head. 'No, Del. I think… I think the lass is trying to say that Gallus _was_ her father.'

'Oh. Right. That makes sense.' Delvin's frown grew deeper. 'No, it bloody doesn't. I can take you being _her_ daughter, but Gallus's?'

From the way Vex was staring at my mother, you'd have thought someone had shoved dung under her nose. 'You and _Gallus?'_

'I loved him,' my mother said, very simply. 'Melyna is my child by him. She lost her father to Mercer's greed and deceit before she was even born. I knew that Mercer would kill her if he ever found me, so I left her with a Khajiit caravan when she was days old. She had no idea who her parents were until she met me.'

'I didn't lie to you about that, Bryn,' I said, and my voice was quieter than I was used to hearing it. 'I know I lied about some of it, but when you told me about that Guild traitor and I promised that my loyalty was to the Guild and not to her? I meant what I was saying.' He was meeting my eyes at last, and to my relief, the hostility was gone from his face. 'Bryn, you don't have to believe any of the rest. It'd be convenient if you did, of course, but you don't have to. But believe that. Believe me when I say I wasn't lying when I called the Guild my family.'

He looked at me steadily for a few seconds. 'And now, lass? Now you've met your mother? Where do your loyalties lie now?'

'I don't have to choose between the Guild and my mother,' I retorted. 'I can be loyal to both. Because Mercer is the one who betrayed us.'

'It's a lie.' Vex stormed forwards, her face twisted into a mask of fury. 'It's a Gods-damn lie, Bryn. We've had her living with us for a year, like… like a wolf pretending to be a dog. And all along she was _her_ daughter.' She jabbed her dagger in my mother's direction. 'Don't listen to her. Don't listen to a word she says. We should cut her throat now -'

My mother's hand flashed to her back, reaching for her bow – but there was no need. Because Brynjolf had, very gently, placed his hand on top of Vex's dagger and was pushing it down.

'No, Vex,' he said quietly. 'I do believe her. I don't know what to think about what they say about Mercer, but…'

He let out a long, slow breath. 'I do believe that she's Gallus's daughter. And I'm not killing that man's child. No matter what. I owe him better than that.'

Delvin let out a murmured sound of agreement.

Vex's eyes shot back and forth between us. Then, with a slow nod, she sheathed her dagger and stepped back. 'Fine. So what now?'

'Now, we find out whether what they say is true. We open the vault. This journal says that Mercer's been stealing from the Guild for years, and if that's the case, we'll see the evidence with our own eyes.' Brynjolf jerked his head in the direction of the vault. 'Come on, all of you.'

As we headed across the walkway – a tense, stony-faced party – I hurried forward to walk at his side. 'That true, Bryn? You believe that he was my father?'

His lips pursed, but he nodded. 'Aye. I do.'

'Why? I mean, I know I look like my mother, but… my father? If you never saw anything of him in me before over the last year, why now?'

Brynjolf let out a thoughtful huff. 'I don't know, lass. I honestly couldn't tell you. It's like the moment you said it, it seemed to make sense. You have his hair, I suppose. And at least some of his smarts.' A grin flickered at the corner of his mouth. 'Or maybe it's because you share his uncanny luck in cards.'

I couldn't stop myself from laughing. The others looked at me as if I were mad to be amused by anything at such a time, but I couldn't help it. Somehow, in that moment, I knew for certain that everything was going to be all right.

Finding that the Guild's entire stock of gold had vanished without trace would not have been my normal definition of 'all right.' But this was hardly a normal time.

They were a blur, the next few minutes, a blur of head-scratching from Delvin, fuming from Vex, frowns and sighs from Brynjolf, and explanations from myself and my mother. Explanations of what had happened in Snow Veil Sanctum, both three days before and twenty five years ago. The story of how the Guild's leader had robbed his own people of every last Septim. My mother stayed very calm, and I stayed less calm, until at last Brynjolf breathed in deeply, and nodded.

'All right,' he said. 'That's enough for now. Karliah – I want to go over some of this again with you. But you, Melyna – we need you back in the field. We need you to break into Mercer's place and search for anything that could tell us where he's gone – '

'Hold on.' I help up my hands. 'I'm ready to take care of it, Bryn. But there's something I need to know first. Where's Marcurio?'

My mother raised one eyebrow.

'Marcurio?' Brynjolf said slowly. 'I don't know, lass. I guess he's in the Bee and Barb, like usual.'

'Have you seen Mercer since he went to Snow Veil with me?'

'Yes, he came back here to tell us that you were a traitor, Karliah's daughter, and now a dead woman, and that your mother got away. And then he vanished and we've not seen him since.'

'Do you know if he went to the inn? As in, the place that Marcurio hangs out?'

' _No._ I don't. And right now, lass, your boyfriend is the least of our worries –'

I couldn't even be bothered to debate the boyfriend part. 'It's not the least of mine, Bryn. Before Mercer stabbed me in the Sanctum, he told me he'd send Marc my regards. And either that meant he was going to just be a sodding sadist and rub my not-actual death in his face, or… or it meant something worse. And I've got to know. If it's the former, then I've got to make sure he knows I'm alive, and if it's the latter…' I stopped, suddenly aware of how uncharacteristically high-pitched my voice was becoming. 'If it's the latter, then I need to know if I've got another reason to rip that man limb from limb.'

Brynjolf stared at me, then sighed yet again and dipped his head. 'Go find your boyfriend, then, lass. And after, go straight to Mercer's house. You know where it is. Anything that could tell us where he is…'

'Got it.' I shot a quick grin at my mother. 'I'll be back soon.'

Her face was grave. 'Good luck, Melyna. Be careful. And… I hope your friend's alive.'

I swallowed, muttered something like, 'Me too,' and ran for the Cistern's exit.

Something had occurred to me, you see, Leo, over the past few days. I had realised just how much had been taken away from my mother, and from my father, and from me. If not for Mercer, I would have been born in the Guild, raised in the Cistern. My parents would have taught me the bow and the blade. Maybe… maybe they'd have had more children. I'd have had siblings, perhaps a brother or a sister or even both.

I could have had a bloody family. We all could have. And Mercer took that away. Mercer took it away before my mother even had a chance to learn that she was with child, to tell my father about it, for them to celebrate it and to choose a name together.

Mercer had taken away my father. A man who I would have loved, and who would have loved me.

He would not take a second. By all the Divines, he could not have taken a second. He could not have taken Marcurio.

* * *

 **I have to say, I enjoyed writing this. Quite a lot. Karliah is quite possibly my favourite Skyrim character, so finally bringing her into the story (and having her say something other than in-game dialogue) was very enjoyable. Especially her interactions with Melyna. Let's just say the opening scene of this chapter has been hanging around in my mind waiting to be written for a long, long time.**

 **Any thoughts on the family reunion? If so, I'd love to hear them! Thanks for reading.**


	7. Making Ties (And Creepy Oaths)

CHAPTER SIX – MAKING TIES (AND CREEPY OATHS)

I flung the door to the Bee and Barb open with the force of a small hurricane. The crash as it smacked into the wall sent every heard turning in my direction and every eye flicking towards me, the expressions of the customers ranging from disapproving to bewildered to startled. I barely noticed them. Neither did I really hear Talen-Jei when he tentatively asked me if I wanted a drink or a bed for the night. I had already taken off running again, running towards the stairway that led to the rooms, because my eyes had flown straight to Marcurio's usual corner and found it empty.

Perhaps someone would have tried to stop me and question me had I not been in my Guild leathers. But my allegiance was virtually written all over me, and no one in their right mind interferes with Thieves Guild business. So I was met with no resistance on my way to the stairs other than a few tuts and raised eyebrows. I took the steps two at a time, and, reaching the top, sprinted at full speed towards Marcurio's room. He always booked the same one. He had to be there. He was going to be there. I would rip Mercer Frey limb from limb if he wasn't there. Granted, I planned to do that to Mercer anyway, but if Marcurio wasn't there, I would do it _slowly._

 _Gods and Daedra, let him be there._

I skidded to a halt outside the door, raised one hand, and smacked on it so hard that pain jolted through my wrist. I barely noticed; I was already hammering on the door again, and the hinges were making shrill squeaks of complaint. In fact, I almost missed the strained-sounding voice mumbling 'Come in,' over my thumps.

A shaky gasp of relief burst from me, and my heartbeat slowed a little; I knew the voice, would have known it anywhere. I wrenched the door open, threw myself inside, and slammed it behind me.

Marcurio was seated on his bed, head bowed and hands clasped together in front of him. His eyes were shadowed by dark circles, and his hair was, for once, untied from the normal ponytail, hanging down his back in a mess of tangles. No fewer than five empty mead bottles littered the ground at his feet, accompanied by a handful of tankards. The remnants of a sixth bottle lay in a scattering of broken glass at the foot of the opposite wall. As if someone had thrown it in the grip of rage – or grief.

An odd tightness crept through my throat. 'Hey, pack mule,' I said softly.

His head jolted up as if pulled by a string, and he looked around to face me. I met his eyes, and what I saw… what I saw was something that I'll carry with me for the rest of my life. In the space of a single second, I saw those eyes change. When they first locked onto mine, they were empty. Hollow with despair. And in a heartbeat, they were full. Full with a kind of joy I'd never seen in anyone's eyes before.

And as he leaped to his feet and shouted my name, I stood there, stunned. I had witnessed a man rise from the depths of utter devastation to the height of elation in a moment, and it had happened because I had walked into the room.

Marcurio half-ran to me, his mouth open with shock, and opened his arms as if to embrace me. Then he stopped, dithered for a moment, and stuck out one hand instead. I glanced down at it, took it, and used it to pull him towards me so I could fling my arms around him.

'Bloody hell, Marc,' I mumbled into the fabric of his robes. 'I thought that bastard might've got you.'

There was a short silence before he replied, his voice faltering. 'He said you were dead.'

We stood there for some time. Just clinging to each other. Then I coughed, let him go, and stepped back. 'Let me guess. _He_ is Mercer Frey?'

Marcurio nodded, swallowing. 'Your boss… he came to find me. He said – that woman you were hunting in the Sanctum – he said she shot you. Said he thought I should know.'

He glanced around, his eyes flicking between me and the bottles littering the floor. Abruptly, he snatched up a comb from the table beside his bed and set it to work on his hair with more than a little aggression. 'So what really happened? Why'd he lie? I daresay this was all some part of another of your bold, reckless plans? You intended to fake your death in order to spring on the enemy at the last moment and save the day?'

His voice was full of the usual glibness again, but I didn't miss that it shook ever so slightly. I smiled, shook my head, and dropped down to sit on the bed, gesturing for him to take a seat beside me. 'Put the comb down, mister apprentice wizard. I've seen you with Chaurus egg yolk in your hair, I don't mind a few knots.'

'I thought we agreed to never mention the Chaurus incident again,' he remarked, sinking down next to me. He lowered the hand that held the comb, but didn't let it go; he was gripping it so hard that his knuckles had turned white.

'Come on, mule,' I murmured, reaching across and carefully prying it free of his grip. 'Don't abuse your fingers.'

He said nothing.

'Mercer lied,' I told him. 'That whole story we were told, about how the person we thought was probably my mother was a traitor who killed the last Guildmaster, and all that? It was a lie. Mercer's the traitor. He killed the Guildmaster. Who it turns out was my father, incidentally. And the traitor who isn't a traitor - we were right. She actually is my mother. Mercer tried to kill me – stabbed me and left me to bleed out – but my mother saved me. And then we had to hunt around for evidence that Mercer was a traitor, and I'm sorry it took so long but you've got to do a job properly, right? So when we found it, we brought it back, and now here I am. Hey.'

Marcurio's eyes narrowed. 'He _stabbed_ you?'

'Yup. Right through the stomach. The scar's pretty fetching, if I do say so myself.'

His hands clenched into fists. 'And you were stupid enough to let your guard down around him? This is more proof if it was ever needed that you need me around. You can't even go a day without being impaled!'

I snorted. 'Didn't know you cared so much.'

'That's because you never listen!'

'Well, if you've got something to say, spit it out.'

'I have a great deal to say.' He leaped to his feet, pacing in a somewhat frenzied circle about the room. 'That bastard, Frey – I should have known he was lying, I should have drowned him in fire where he stood. I should have known you'd be too quick to just let yourself get shot –'

'Oh, I did get shot,' I corrected him. ' _Then_ I got stabbed. And I'm still alive at the end of it. I'm good that way.'

Marcurio muttered a few curses of a kind even I won't repeat, and kicked one of the empty bottles so that it rolled the length of the room. 'I was going to leave,' he said. 'When Frey told me you were dead, I was going to leave. Just… get out of Riften and find some other place. There was nothing left for me here.'

I raised my eyebrows. 'Aside from several bottles of Honningbrew Mead.'

He shrugged and slumped back down on the bed beside me. 'I was angry.'

'So you thought it better to hit the bottle than to hit people? I guess that's fair.'

A slow, heavy sigh escaped him, and he was silent for some time.

'Tell me what happened,' he said at last. 'Everything. Your mother, and Mercer Frey, and you getting hurt, and where you've been… everything.'

And I did, because Marcurio and I always did share everything with each other. Our thoughts, our fears, our feelings, all of it. I told him about the dread I'd felt standing in front of the puzzle door. The shock of learning my father's identity. The terror of seeing a sword plunge down into my chest. And the tentative joy of what followed – meeting my mother, speaking with her, having her hold me close to her. Learning who she was.

Marcurio listened, a faint frown creasing his brow and his eyes fixed on my face. He didn't move, except as I told him about how Mercer had stabbed me, when his jaw clenched so tight it must have been painful.

'So,' he said at last, nodding slowly. 'You're actually half-Imperial.'

I stared at him – of all the things I'd been expecting him to say, that had been pretty far down on the list. 'Seriously? That's your biggest problem with all this?'

He blinked. 'Who said I thought it was a problem?'

'You don't mind?'

'I don't mind the grey skin, red eyes, pointy ears or vocabulary based around the words, _sodding, Oblivion_ and _oops, I pressed the button I obviously wasn't meant to press._ ' Marcurio shrugged. 'Why would I care about you having Imperial blood?'

'Good to know.' I grinned. 'And I even get a surname into the bargain now. Melyna Desidenius. What do you think?'

A smirk flickered across his face. 'I think that I'll stick with Mel. If I try shouting, 'watch out for that spike trap, Melyna Desidenius,' you'll be dead while I'm still on the _Des._ And anyway, you don't technically get the surname, do you? Your parents weren't married, so -'

'Who freaking cares?' I snapped. 'It's all I have from him. Apart from a sword. I've got a sword and a surname from my father, and thanks to Mercer bloody Frey, that's _it.'_

Marcurio looked at me for a moment, then gently touched my arm. 'I'm sorry, Mel. About your father. And that it took you so long to meet your mother.'

I swallowed and nodded. 'Thanks.'

'What's she like?'

I frowned, considering this. Three days isn't much time to get to know someone well enough to answer that kind of question.

'Quiet,' I said at last. 'And… sort of sad. Can't blame her. Also Gods-damn tough. Doesn't take any nonsense, scarily good at stealth and archery, and already pretty protective of me. I guess I can't blame her for that one either. I'm pretty much all she has left.' I shook my head. 'It's still hard to believe just how much Mercer took from her. And from my father. And from me.'

'You'll get him,' Marcurio said firmly. 'You'll make him pay. And I'll be there standing watching and cheering.'

'Sounds like a plan to me. And the good news is, Brynjolf actually asked me to head over to Frey's place now. Raid his stuff, find out where he went.'

Marcurio looked at me quizzically. 'You delayed starting a vital Guild mission to track down your traitorous leader so that you could come and make sure I wasn't drinking myself to death?'

'Well, that wasn't what I was worried about, really. Mercer said something that made me think he might try to hurt you. You know, like he was trying up the loose ends, making sure no one who knew the truth was left alive.'

He shrugged. 'I was downstairs when he found me, and it was a busy day. I don't think even the Thieves Guild leader could get away with murdering someone in the middle of a packed tavern.'

'Oh, he could,' I told him through gritted teeth. 'He could get away with it. It just would have looked too suspicious to the rest of the Guild, is all. Mercer's a thief, he has subtlety. Killing you in front of witnesses would have rung alarm bells, made them wonder if something was up. Better to break your heart so you leave Riften or at least don't have it in you to stop him.'

Marcurio frowned at me. 'Break my heart, hmm? What makes you think I'd be that cut up about you dying?'

'Oh, I don't know. The messed-up hair and the mead bottles, maybe?'

'I can manage just fine without you!'

'Uh-huh. The fact that you've clearly not left the inn in days says otherwise.'

'Well, you're the one who almost got yourself killed after you left my sight!'

'So you admit that you like having me in your sight, do you?'

For a second, he glared at me. And then he stopped. He looked at me with his face utterly serious and said quietly, 'Yes. I like knowing that you're safe. And when Mercer told me that you were dead, it tore me apart.'

I stared. He gazed evenly, calmly back.

'From now on,' he said, 'be careful. I'm not always going to be around to cover your back for you. Just make sure that you always come back.'

I thought of my father. How he hadn't come back to my mother, and how they'd missed out on everything they could have had. I thought of how, for a few terrible minutes, I had been afraid that the same would happen to me, that I would lose my chance. I met those amber-ish brown eyes, studied the face I knew so well, and knew that it was time to stop. Stop snapping and sassing and throwing out sarcastic comments to avoid saying what I was really thinking.

Because what was the point, really? He knew what I was really thinking. I knew what he was really thinking. We both knew. We'd known for a long time.

So I gave him a small, shallow nod and said, 'I'll do my best, pack mule. But I don't know, maybe I'll need some encouragement. I'd have to have something important to come back to, for one thing.'

This was met by a cautious raising of eyebrows. 'Is that so? Don't you think I might need an equally important reason to want to be around when you get back?'

I flashed out a hand and seized the front of his robes, dragging him a little closer to me. 'That so?'

There was a short pause.

'Why are we still arguing?' Marcurio said faintly.

'No idea,' I admitted.

Then I yanked him in the rest of the way, and kissed him. Forcefully.

Roll your eyes all you like, Leo. I don't care. In that moment, I found it hard to care about anything much. I was barely even aware of him placing his hands on my arms and drawing me closer to him. I was aware of nothing but one simple, resounding thought: _finally._

It lasted some time, I'm afraid. Probably long enough to embarrass you. And when it finally ended, Marcurio smiled broadly, pressed his forehead to mine, and murmured, ' _That_ took you long enough.'

'Oh, shut up.' I chuckled quietly. 'You were the one who kept putting it off. Constant snarky comments whenever I wanted to say anything real –'

'Please. You've never said anything real in your life, Melyna Desidenius.'

I shook my head, still grinning. 'Well, let me say something real now. Or try to. And I'm no good at this kind of thing normally, so bear with me. Marcurio, I… well… the reason I came storming in here looking for you is because… I was afraid Mercer had killed you and believe it or not, it would have upset me if he had. A little.'

'Go on.' Marcurio leaned back slightly. Gods, that infuriating smirk was back on his face. 'This is entertaining.'

'Oh… screw you. Anyway, I… wouldn't want to lose you. There. That'll have to do. For now.'

The smirk widened. 'Oh, no, I'm not sure I've quite got the picture yet. I think I need more explanation.'

'You're an arsehole.'

'I'm aware.'

I made a noise that sounded like the bastard offspring of a snort and a moan of despair. 'Gods, Marc. Can't you ever make anything easy? I just bloody kissed you, what more do you want?'

'A great deal, but that can come later.'

'You're an _enormous_ arsehole. Anyway, I… look, we've been together a bloody long time, and I reckon it's time we both accepted that we're sort of _together_ together, and I, you know, sort of want that. And I've probably wanted that for a long time and been too stubborn to admit it. So… yeah.'

He shook his head; the smirk had finally softened into a smile, and the look in his eyes was… fond. 'I get it. And it's what I want too. It… it killed me, thinking you were dead. I never want to go through that again. So I guess I'll have to stick around and make sure you don't get yourself killed, won't I? Only sensible solution.'

'When you start talking sense, we know things are serious.'

Marcurio opened his mouth, probably to fling one of our usual sassy retorts at me, but whatever he had been going to say died on his lips. A frown came over his face; he was looking into my eyes with a strange, fierce intensity.

'I'm all for the passionate staring, Marc,' I said, 'but why exactly – '

'Your eyes,' he said, still staring. 'I never noticed before.'

Now it was my turn to frown. 'Noticed what?'

'You've got a…' He sucked on his lower lip for a few moments. 'You wouldn't know unless you really looked closely, but you've got a sort of ring of purple around your pupils. I didn't know Dunmer eyes could do that. I mean, I've seen humans with rings of brown in blue or green eyes, but never a Dark Elf.' A smile spread across his face. 'It's beautiful, actually.'

So I'd inherited it after all, whatever strange, rare trait had given my mother those eyes. All this time, my connection to her had been stamped on my own face. And I'd never known, never had a mirror clear enough to show me, never had anyone look deep enough into my eyes to see it. Until now. Until Marcurio.

'It isn't purple,' I murmured. My throat felt suddenly tight. 'It's indigo.'

* * *

Since I'd spent more time than Brynjolf would probably have thought appropriate finally confirming that Marcurio and I were an item, I determined that the business of breaking into Mercer's home would have to be over quickly. And, to my relief, it was simpler than anticipated. The guard at the gate gave us no trouble; one thing I'd learned growing up with Ahkari's caravan was how to lie convincingly. Don't get any stereotypes into your head, Leo – Khajiit aren't consummate liars by nature. It's just that when Khajiit do want to be consummate liars, they tend to be very, very good at it.

So I sent the guard packing quickly with some silver-tongued words about how Mercer needed to see him in Markarth, and that he should leave me looking after the house for him. Even got given the key into the bargain. A raid of the place revealed a secret passage, which didn't surprise me in the slightest, and a nice convenient desk containing papers where Mercer had written his plans. Thus armed, I said a temporary farewell to Marcurio – who went on his way muttering dark promises about what he'd do to me if I got myself killed hunting Mercer – and returned to the Cistern.

Neither Brynjolf nor my mother responded well to hearing my discovery: namely, that Mercer planned on finding and stealing the Eyes of the Falmer. Which, incidentally, are quite possibly the two most valuable gemstones in existence. And which my father planned to retrieve himself. Clearly, for Mercer, murdering one's best friend isn't enough. It's then necessary to spit on their memory and prove yourself their superior.

And this, Leo, is the part where things took something of a twist. When the story became about more than a shattered family and a Guild betrayed. I guess the great author of life decided that things weren't interesting and crazy enough already, and decided to throw in a Daedric Prince.

One word had been haunting me over the past few days, popping up again and again with no explanation attached. I'd heard it first in the Sanctum, then said several times by my mother, and written in my father's journal.

 _Did you forget the oath we took as Nightingales?_

 _Enthir was the only person your father trusted with the secret of his Nightingale identity._

 _Mercer's actions represent the failure of the Nightingales._

 _Mercer is a Nightingale, an agent of Nocturnal. He may have broken his oath, but he still possesses his power._

And now, at last, as my mother led Brynjolf and me towards the door carved into the mountainside, it seemed that I was about to learn what that word meant.

The _agent of Nocturnal_ part was pretty unambiguous, at least. But there was no denying that as my mother explained how we were here to seek the edge we needed to defeat Mercer, my insides were forming themselves into a thick knot. What I was feeling wasn't fear, exactly, more… trepidation. Or apprehension.

Fancy words. My father would be proud.

I've said before, Leo, how absolutely terrible I am at being a Dunmer. If I'd been brought up as a Dark Elf, maybe things would have been different. But I was Khajiit-raised, and while the Khajiit have stories of the Daedric Princes like any other race in Tamriel, while they teach their children to respect and fear the Daedra, they don't make them quite so integral to their culture as the Dunmer do. Every page of Dunmer history is steeped in Daedric influence. It was one of the things that had made me feel so confused and lost in Morrowind. And so, ever since, any mention of the Daedra reminded me of the people who'd called me _outlander,_ of the uncomfortable feeling of not belonging.

So it was with some reluctance that I followed my mother inside the passage leading into the cliffside. I wanted to help her, don't get me wrong. And I definitely wanted to end Mercer. But the methods we'd been using until now – stealth and subterfuge – were things I knew and understood. Their success depended on my skill and nothing more.

Daedric princes… this was a whole new ball game.

A quick glance at Brynjolf told me that he felt the same. We were thieves. Scum of the undercity, rulers of a world that dealt in lies and lockpicks. This ancient hall, with its tattered flags bearing the same symbol that adorned the hilt of my father's sword… it was uncharted territory to us. Yet my mother clearly knew the place well, and the glances she sent around her were nostalgic, not bewildered.

I'll admit, gaining a fancy new set of armour did a little to quell my doubts. When my mother indicated for me to lay my hands on one of the three stones emblazoned with the Nightingale emblem, the armour melted onto my body with an odd sensation, as if it were a liquid that someone had poured over me, and was solidifying into my shape. Though it was clearly some kind of metal, the plates moved silently without the slightest sound of scraping, and, the boots made no noise when I set down my feet.

'Snazzy,' I remarked, twisting the cape and throwing it over one shoulder to keep it from impeding my movement.

My mother stared at me for a few moments. 'I lead my daughter into the ancient headquarters of a secret Daedric order, present her with armour that only three mortals alive have a right to wear, and the first thing she has to say about it is _snazzy.'_

'Hey, I never got whatever kind of scholarly education my father did. And I'm not even speaking my first language, remember. _Snazzy_ doesn't even have a direct translation in Ta'agra, so I think I should get credit where it's due for even knowing the word.'

I couldn't see my mother's face behind her mask, but I'm almost certain she smiled. 'I give you credit, Melyna. Now, to the matter at hand.' She indicated the metal gate a short way away from where we were standing. 'Beyond this gate is the first step in becoming a Nightingale.'

A huff escaped me. 'We become Nightingales too, huh? Saw that one coming.'

'Well, I didn't.' Brynjolf folded his arms. 'I appreciate the armour, lass, but becoming a Nightingale? That was never discussed.'

'To hold any hope of defeating Mercer, we must have Nocturnal at our backs,' my mother said, her voice firm. 'We need the power she can offer us. If she's to accept you as one of your own, an arrangement must be struck.'

'What sort of arrangement?' Brynjolf demanded. 'I need to know the terms. And I'm pretty sure Melyna wants to know them too.'

My mother glanced at me, and I shrugged. 'I wouldn't complain if you spilled the beans on that front, no.'

She nodded slowly. 'Well, perhaps it'll be some comfort to you, Brynjolf, if I point out that I'm not involving you in anything so dangerous that I'm keeping my daughter out of it.'

Brynjolf relaxed a little at that, and I think maybe I did too. I'd had so little time to get to know my mother, and yet I was already certain that she was determined to protect me. We were yet to work out all the intricacies of a mother-daughter relationship, but we both seemed to agree on the parent-protecting-the-child front. If she was bringing me into this, it meant she trusted me to cope with it, that she didn't think it would put me in too much danger.

And… I trusted her. I trusted her not to get me mixed up in anything that I'd regret being part of.

'But since you ask, the terms are quite simple,' my mother went on. 'Nocturnal will allow you to become a Nightingale, and use your abilities for whatever you wish. You'll both be aware that she's the Daedric Prince of luck. Her favour – and the power that comes with it – is a blessing to any thief. Especially to a thief hunting down a traitor and murderer.' She lowered her gaze for a moment, and I saw her draw in a breath before continuing. 'And in return, both in life and in death, you must serve her as a guardian of the Twilight Sepulchre.'

'A guardian of the what now?'

'Nocturnal's temple in Skyrim.'

A frown furrowed my brow. 'And is this a permanent arrangement? Are we giving our souls to a Daedric Prince for… you know, eternity?'

'You two are. Mine's already promised to her. Though…' A sigh escaped her. 'She no longer considers me her agent. I'm not entirely certain where that leaves me.'

This, of course, sent a dozen more questions leaping up inside my mind, waving their hands for attention, but I pushed them away and asked only the most important. 'So what does that mean? After we die, we're in some temple until the end of time, doing… what, exactly?'

She shook her head. 'It isn't forever. A Nightingale serves Nocturnal in the Sepulchre until the Lady believes you've defended the temple long enough for her to feel you've paid her back for the favour she gave you in life. Then we pass to Nocturnal's realm. The Evergloam.'

'Sounds tempting.'

'Actually, it is. It's not so much a separate realm. It's all around us. Every shadow. Every blackest night.' There was an odd, wistful tone in her voice now. 'The Nightingale who goes to Evergloam becomes one with the shadows. We watch over the thieves of Tamriel, all who serve Nocturnal, and we give them our aid. It's the kind of freedom a living thief can only dream of.'

'And that's where my father is?'

She bit her lip. 'I don't know, Melyna. I can't explain why. Not until after you've taken the Oath. I know I'm keeping a great deal from you, but... Nocturnal expects secrecy from her agents. I've already angered her one. If I try her patience further…' She shook her head slightly. 'It's not my life I'm afraid for.'

'Well, If it means the end of Mercer, you can count me in,' Brynjolf said firmly. 'Mel?'

'I'm in.' I barely thought about it, mostly because it didn't need thinking about. My father had taken this Oath. My mother had. It seemed somehow right that I should follow in their footsteps. If I had misgivings, they came from my old instinct to walk free. As an honorary Khajiit, I had never had anything to tie me down; the wilderness of Skyrim had been open to me. Loyal as I was to the Guild, I'd always had the knowledge that I could sneak away if I needed to, brush the dust of Riften from my boots. I'd never, really, been tied down to anything before.

But things were changing now, weren't they? Hours earlier, I'd made things official with Marcurio. We were together; that tied me to him. And here, right in front of me, was my mother. Some ties you can't break, and blood is one of them. I was bound to her. I'd always be her daughter, no matter where I went or what I chose to do.

My life was changing. I was putting down roots, making ties. Why try to fight it?

'Good.' I didn't miss the trace of relief in my mother's voice. As if she'd been afraid I'd refuse. 'After I open the gate, stand on the western circle. It's where I stood, when I took my Oath. Brynjolf, you take the east.'

This made little sense at first, but I understood when she led us further through the passageway, and into a vast, cavernous chamber built around some kind of underground lake. A walkway led over the water to a round stone platform, then branched out into a three-pronged fork, each separate path with a smaller circle at the end. I took a moment to remind myself that the western circle would be the left-hand one – don't judge me, Leo, I was never the best at navigation – and took up my place there, as I'd been bidden.

We waited. And then my mother lifted her head, spread out her arms, and called out, clear and strident, into the cool air of the chamber. 'I call upon you, Lady Nocturnal, Queen of Murk and Empress of Shadow… hear my voice!'

 _That's a lot of fancy titles,_ I remarked to myself. Which is probably not the most respectful thing to think while an honest-to-Gods Daedric Prince manifests right in front of you, but there you are.

If you're wondering, Leo, how Nocturnal appears on Nirn when she can't be bothered to take on the full-blown human form, she seems to favour the fetching form of an orb of purple and white mist. Add a wind from nowhere, and the coldest voice you've heard in your entire life, and you'll have a pretty good impression.

'Ah, Karliah. I was wondering when I'd hear from you again. Lose something, did we?'

The mighty Lady Nocturnal did nothing to endear herself to me with that first sentence.

 _Yeah, bitch, she lost my father and she lost all her friends and she lost her daughter,_ I snarled silently, while my mother sank onto one knee and reeled off some declaration of her righteous purpose and so on. _I expect this kind of mortal stuff is beyond your comprehension, but you might show a bit of sympathy._

Once I'd stopped my mental ranting, I became aware that Nocturnal was speaking again. 'You're already mine, Karliah. Your terms were struck long ago. What could you possibly offer me now?'

My mother held out her hands, indicating Brynjolf and I, standing on our circles. 'I have two others who are willing to transact the Oath; to serve you both in life and in death.'

I sensed, suddenly – though there was no shift in the mist-orb that indicated it – that Nocturnal's attention had shifted to me. 'And one of them is your own blood.'

'She is my daughter, your Grace.' My mother's figure had grown tense. 'Mine and Gallus's.'

'How interesting. So this girl is the product of your distraction from your duties.'

'Woman,' I snapped.

There was a pin-drop silence. The feeling that I was being examined intensified.

'I mean, I'm twenty five,' I said, shrugging. 'Definitely a woman, not a girl. Name of Melyna Desidenius, if you're interested.'

'She's young, my Lady.' My mother spoke quickly, as if she didn't want to give Nocturnal too much time to dwell on my impertinence. 'But she – she has potential – '

The disembodied voice cut across her. 'This, I know. Mercer Frey may have removed much of my ability to intervene in your world, but I still possess my power to watch. And I have watched your daughter, Karliah. She has inherited her parents' skill, certainly. But what of her loyalty? Does she understand what is asked of her? Or will she, like her mother, fail to see danger when it stands in front of her? Will she let her vigilance drop when it is most needed, as her father did? Will she –'

'She's going to kill Mercer Frey,' I said shortly. 'And from what I can tell, you need someone to kill him as much as we need your help killing him. So I think the fact that I'm after his blood should be enough for you.'

I saw my mother glance in my direction, and though her face was invisible behind the mask, I had a feeling that she was more than a little worried about my speaking so impudently to a Daedric Prince.

Nocturnal's invisible gaze was still scorching into me. 'And what makes you so certain I have such need of your aid, mortal?'

'Partly what you said just then, about Mercer taking away your ability to act on Nirn, or whatever.' I folded my arms. 'And partly because… it just makes sense. I might not have got on board with the whole Daedra culture when I lived in Morrowind, but I still learned some things. And one thing I learned is that Daedra only have mortal servants when it benefits them. Mortal _followers_ – they're something different. They just worship, they don't give you anything, exactly. But agents? Agents act for you when you can't act yourself. Agents fight your battles. Agents… they're something you need. You wouldn't have this Nightingale Order at all if you didn't get something back from it.'

I gazed into the maelstrom of mist with as much calmness as I could muster. 'So… my guess is, after twenty five years with one agent dead, one exiled, and one a traitor, you need us. A Daedric Prince, going a quarter century with no way to enact their will on Nirn? Not good at all. You can't afford to turn us away. If you do, it could be another twenty five years before anyone takes our places – or it could be never. We need you, or we don't catch Mercer, and Gods only know what that'll do to our Guild. And you need us, or maybe your influence dries up for good.'

The wind whipped against the walls of the chamber. I stood waiting, head raised, chin up. And at last, the cold smooth voice came again.

'My, my, Karliah. Your child is a canny one.'

I let out a breath I hadn't been aware I'd been holding. _Daedra are unpredictable,_ Teldryn had once told me. _Sometimes you can never tell what'll anger them and what'll impress them._ I'd taken a gamble on impressing Nocturnal - and it seemed I'd won.

'I think she's her father's daughter, your Grace,' my mother said softly.

'Indeed.' The intensity of the Prince's unseen gaze faded a little; it was as if she'd drawn back, and was weighing all three of us up from a distance. 'Her father's wisdom may have failed him when I needed it to serve me most, but his mind was sharp, his skills honed to perfection. And you, Karliah – you served me well for many years. Perhaps your girl – a child of two Nightingales – shall correct her parents' mistakes. What do you say, Melyna?'

Closing my eyes, I turned the question over in my mind. I thought of what path my life might have taken if Mercer hadn't turned traitor, if my father hadn't died. I would have been raised in the Guild, by my Nightingale parents, and no doubt, some day, I would have ended up standing here in this hall, taking this Oath. They would have brought me up preparing for it.

They hadn't had that chance. I'd been raised away from the Guild and had never heard the name Nightingale until days ago. And yet I'd still ended up here. As if… as if it had been meant to happen. I'd never been fond of the idea of fate, but… it was the only word I could use to describe this.

I breathed in deeply. 'I think this is what I was born to be.'

'And you are right.' Perhaps I'm imagining that Nocturnal's voice grew louder, but I seem to remember that it did, until the stones seemed to tremble at her words. 'I saw Mercer's treachery brewing, Karliah, even when you did not. And while I was still able to act in your world, I pulled the strings of luck to ensure that even if I lost all three of my Nightingales – as I did – I would have another waiting. A child with the talent of the two who, though they were bound for failure, had remained loyal.'

It took me a moment to realise that my mouth was hanging a little way open, and something told me that my mother's was too. 'Are you saying…' She stopped, shook her head as if trying to shake the confusion from it, and tried again. 'My lady, are you saying that you ensured that Melyna was conceived?'

'My last act on Nirn before the Skeleton Key was stolen.' The swirling of the mist grew stronger and faster. 'And it seems my precaution paid off. Here is the child, grown strong and trained in the art of the shadows, and filled with thoughts of vengeance towards the one who betrayed me.' There was an unmistakable tone of satisfaction in Nocturnal's voice. 'She shall be the instrument of my revenge.'

I took a step forward, so that I was standing on the edge of my circle. 'Damn right I will.'

'Then the conditions are acceptable. You may proceed.'

My mother bowed her head, placing one hand over her heart. 'Lady Nocturnal, we accept your terms. We dedicate ourselves to you both as your avengers and your sentinels. We will honour our agreement in this life and the next, until your conditions have been met.'

'Very well.' A short silence; then three shafts of translucent purple light blinked into being, one surrounding each of us. 'I name your initiates Nightingales. And I restore your status to the same, Karliah.'

The light faded, as did the sound of the wind and the mist-orb hovering over the central circle. 'And in future, I suggest you refrain from disappointing me again.'

All three of us stood motionless for a few moments, once all trace of the Prince's presence had gone from the cavern. Then, feeling the silence was too complete for comfort, I huffed loudly. 'What a bitch.'

My mother made a sound that suggested she was struggling to keep herself from laughing, and pressed a hand to her forehead. 'Yes, well, please don't call her that to her face.'

'So,' Brynjolf said loudly, hurrying down the walkway towards the largest platform. 'Now we've got the armour, we've had a Daedric Prince lecture us, and we've found out Mel here's some kind of… Daedra-touched chosen one. Now what?'

'Now, we find fast horses and set out to find Mercer.' My mother pushed back her hood and pulled down her mask, revealing a face set with steely determination. 'And on the way, I'll explain the last piece of the puzzle to you.'

'Would this be an explanation for the whole… Skeleton Key thing?' I guessed.

'Exactly.' She beckoned for us to follow her towards the tunnel that led to the outside world. 'And Brynjolf has some business to discuss with you, too.'

'Hold on,' I said. 'This whole thing with Nocturnal pulling the strings of luck or whatever it was to make sure I was born. Does that… bother you at all?'

She raised her eyebrows. 'Does it trouble you?'

'Not really. I'm alive, it's a fact, doesn't matter what caused it. I just wondered if you… I mean, Nocturnal basically picked me to replace you.'

My mother stopped walking and turned to face me. 'Melyna. For twenty five years, I've been running from the Guild and from the memory of what Mercer did. I never slept in the same place twice. I barely spoke to another living creature. It would be an understatement to say that it was hard to stop running and face my past. While I was setting my trap for Mercer – Honningbrew, Goldenglow, Gulum-Ei, the Sanctum – I wondered again and again if I had the strength to do it. I wondered whether my love for Gallus and my hatred for Mercer would be enough to see me through.'

A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. 'And every time I doubted myself, I remembered that you were out there somewhere. My daughter. My flesh and blood. I wondered what kind of woman you'd grown into, and I ached to know whether or not you were happy. I told myself I'd never know if I didn't face up to what I was running from. You kept me going, Melyna. And now I've found you, now I know the answers to my questions… I know that you are worth the last twenty five years.'

She closed her eyes for a moment, and when she opened them again, I noticed that they were wet.

'So, no. It doesn't make any difference to me that Nocturnal caused your birth. I don't care why she decided to bring you into existence. I'm simply glad she did.'

* * *

 **Why do my chapters always turn out longer than intended? _Why?_ I apologise if it's taking a while to get to the action - but next chapter, I'll launch you right into it. This I promise. Mel will be meeting two people she very much wants to come face to face with... And I will enjoy writing those meetings. **

**Thanks for reading!**


	8. Ghost Of A Chance (And A Father)

CHAPTER SEVEN – GHOST OF A CHANCE (AND A FATHER)

It may surprise you to learn, Leo, that in all the time I'd spent doing jobs for the Guild and travelling Tamriel, I'd only ever been to a single Dwemer ruin. Teldryn and I had braved it together out of sheer curiosity, on a stormy day in norther Vvardenfell, and the place had left me with no great desire to repeat the experience. There was loot, to be sure, but tentative adventurers had already picked clean the upper levels, and the further in we went, the less either of us wanted to stay. The place was a city, wide and open, and yet it was still claustrophobic. The knowledge of just how much earth was over our heads, and how far away the sky and sun were…

It was a dead city. A place that had once thrummed with life and now lay cold and empty. I suppose nothing can make a place like that inviting.

And then there were the creatures. Some of them weren't even living things; they were the animunculi, steam-powered automatons built by the Dwemer in ages past to guard their halls. You can't kill a metal construct – you have to find a way to take it apart. One arrow won't do it, unless you can shoot out the soul gem that keeps it moving. Fire spells? Forget it. You might as well attack a mammoth with a bunch of deathbells.

But if I'd thought that having a statue hissing and clunking towards me, emotionless and unrelenting, would be the most unnerving thing the ruins had to throw at me, I was wrong. Because eventually, the immaculate brass and polished stone gave way to rough-cut rock and dim passageways overgrown with luminescent mushrooms. And it was in these tunnels that the Falmer lurked. Pale as the dead, hunched and eyeless, all clawlike hands and snarling voices. Stealth is painfully irrelevant against a blind creature, strange as it sounds. With no eyes, their ears and noses are all the sharper – and yes, you can keep your footsteps quiet, but how can you disguise your scent?

So as soon as we'd amassed enough shinies to make the trip worthwhile, Teldryn and I headed for the surface at a fast pace. 'Never doing _that_ again,' I remarked, and he gave me a nod that said _I don't blame you._

But to hunt down my father's murderer, I had to break that resolution. I didn't like it, but there was nothing to be done about it. Mercer had gone to Irkngthand, the ruin that contained the Eyes of the Falmer, and that meant that Brynjolf and my mother and I had to follow.

It was a relief to discover that facing a Dwemer ruin with two Nightingales at my side was not going to be like facing one with Teldryn. Fond as I was (and still am) of the guy, I can't deny that stealth wasn't his strong suit. I can't count the number of times that chitin armour of his alerted the Falmer to our presence. Brynjolf and my mother, though - they walked on silent feet and struck from the shadows. Besides, I had fought beside Brynjolf on Guild missions before, and with my mother in that museum in Markarth. And the two of them had been taught the same skills by my father. Which meant that the three of us worked together with almost as much fluidity as I'd worked with Marcurio.

Not all of it was easy, of course. There were three of us against a small army of Falmer, and my mother and I only had so many arrows, and not enough time to retrieve all the ones we'd fired. Mercer had set traps in his wake, and experienced thieves though we were, it was a struggle to keep clear of them all. And then there was the massive steam centurion, three times my height, with a nasty temper and an even nastier tendency to lauch boiling jets of steam at us.

'Couldn't you use some of that magic of yours, lass?' Brynjolf asked me, as we sat among the pieces of the centurion that lay littered on the ground after we finally brought it down, hurriedly patching our injuries. 'Freeze up the mechanisms, or something?'

'I'd love to, but I can't,' I said firmly, pausing to tip a healing potion down my throat before explaining. 'I was never any good with any kind of magic except fire. I can conjure ice to chill a drink, but not enough to make it actually worthwhile in combat.'

'Lightning would be more useful,' my mother remarked. 'It's a pity we couldn't take your new man along.'

Brynjolf chuckled and shook his head. 'New? The Guild's been taking bets it'd take them to get together for almost a full year. Delvin owes me ten Septims, I told him it'd be within three months.'

I ripped one of the nearby mushrooms up by the roots and threw it at him; I was already sincerely regretting letting slip that Marcurio and I had made it official. 'I cannot believe you're profiting from my love life.'

'Don't go claiming your coin too quickly, Brynjolf,' my mother warned him. 'This new boyfriend doesn't have parental approval yet.'

'You were trying to pair him off with me only yesterday!'

Even as we laughed, we couldn't escape the tension. Our amusement seemed to last only in short bursts. And it wasn't just the atmosphere of the ruin, it was the fact of why we were there. We couldn't forget it, no matter how much we tried to focus on each individual fight, or banter about my love life. My father's killer was one step ahead of us, somewhere in the shadows of this ruin, and every inch of my being screamed at me to find him.

So when we carefully, quietly pushed open that tall golden door to reveal the vast, cavernous chamber where the Eyes of the Falmer sat in the face of a statue taller than the Jarl's palace in Riften, and where Mercer perched on the carved neck, chiselling them free of their sockets… I felt no fear. Only satisfaction. And icy determination.

I opened my mouth to roar a challenge at him, but my mother grasped my arm and shook her head. 'Melyna,' she hissed. 'Element. Of. Surprise.'

I sighed and nodded. She was right.

'He's here and he hasn't seen us yet. Let's keep it that way.' She drew an arrow from her quiver; I could see her eyes drilling into the man who clung to the statue, studying the distance, ready to line up the shot. 'Brynjolf, watch the door.'

'Aye, lass.' Brynjolf's hands tightened around the hilts of his daggers. 'Nothing's getting by me.'

My mother turned back to me. 'Melyna – climb down that ledge and see if you can –'

'Karliah, when will you learn you can't get the drop on me?'

It was the first time since the Sanctum that I'd heard that voice, and a cold fury ran through me at the sound of it. It was thick with a sneer, just as it had been before he'd driven his sword through my chest, and my hand flew to my shoulder, fingers closing around an arrow –

But Mercer, standing bold as brass on the collar of the statue's robe, moved fast, too fast. His hand flashed up, and the unmistakable glow of magic sparked from his fingertips. I had a moment to be confused - _since when was Mercer a mage? –_ but only a moment, because an instant later a shockwave slammed out across the cavern, ripping in half one of the vast pipes built across the ceiling with a hideous scraping and rending of metal, and fracturing the platform on which I and my fellow Nightingales stood.

I had stepped forwards when first entering the cavern, ready to throw myself at Mercer there and then. My mother might have stopped me, but it had still left me standing a pace and a half in front of her and Brynjolf. So when the platform split down the middle, it left me on one side, and them on the other.

I was the one, then, who went tumbling headfirst down the rocks, yelping with surprise as the ground gave way beneath me and my bow went flying from my hand. My mother shouted my name, her voice high-pitched from fright, but the fall lasted only a second. I scrambled to my feet, spitting out dirt, swinging my head around to look for my bow.

But a flash of movement from the corner of my eye caught my attention, and I turned to see Mercer running down the stairway built into the side of the statue. The great stone Snow Elf's hand clasped a book as wide as two horses standing nose-to-tail, and it was here that Mercer came to stand, his sword raised. I glanced up at my companions, and saw that there was no chance of them climbing down to me. The drop was too far and too steep. I was on my own.

I found I didn't mind that all that much.

I abandoned my efforts to find my bow, dumped my quiver to the ground, and pulled my father's sword from its sheath. Mercer's gaze flicked down towards it, and I saw his lip curl.

'Mercer Frey, you effing bastard,' I said, and it won't come as a surprise to you that I didn't actually say 'effing.'

'Eloquent,' he replied, giving his sword a twirl. 'You know, when Brynjolf brought you before me, I could feel a sudden shift in the wind. One look at your face was enough to know whose you were. My old friends turned enemies had come back to haunt me in the form of their daughter.' He laughed sourly. 'And at that moment, I knew it would end with one of us at the end of a blade.'

I strode forwards, and glanced down in surprise as my feet suddenly splashed into water. A glance upwards told me that the damaged pipe was now spewing water down into the cavern at an alarmingly fast pace.

'You're not sodding wrong,' I shouted over the sound of the cascade. 'And for the record? I had no idea who my parents were until Snow Veil Sanctum. I suspected, but I didn't know for sure. You thought my mother sent me to help her plans, but you were wrong.'

'You think I _care - ?'_

'So then my mother saved my life and I finally knew who she was. You'd already told me who my father was. The man you murdered. He was your friend, you godless _s'wit._ And you killed him. You killed my father.'

Mercer laughed again, but there was no mirth in it. I've never heard a bitterer sound. 'And there it is! There in your eyes, right there! That same glint that was always in your father's, every time he planned the impossible heist. Every time I told him it couldn't be done, and he went and pulled it off anyway. He always had to be right – and he was, in the end, wasn't he? You know what he said to me, when I faced him down in the Sanctum? 'It won't end with me, Mercer.' Right again. You always had to be right, didn't you, Gallus?'

He was looking directly into my eyes as he spoke, as if he thought my father's ghost was lurking somewhere inside me, hearing his words. A shiver ran through me.

'You're insane,' I hissed.

'But I won!' Mercer snarled, gesturing viciously towards the now-blind statue behind him, and to the bag strapped to his belt that had to contain the Eyes of the Falmer. 'Gallus's dream heist, the one he never completed. And I finished it. I _won._ Because Gallus would never have dreamed of going after the Skeleton Key. He always care too much for honour, for loyalty. Fool that he was. He didn't have the courage.'

Right. The Skeleton Key. Nocturnal's Daedric Artefact, the key that connected her realm to our own, the key that opened all doors and unlocked hidden potential within the mind of a mortal. The key that Mercer had stolen. That was how he'd cast the spell. All Bretons had latent magical abilities, just like Dunmer; Mercer had used the Key to tap into his.

'No. My father had the sense not to mess with an immensely powerful Daedric artefact.'

'What right do you have to talk about sense, when you stand there in that armour?' Mercer cast a scornful eye over the three of us. 'Is Nocturnal so desperate that she took you back, Karliah? You and your half-breed whelp?'

My mother still had her bow loaded; now she raised it and aimed the arrow at Mercer's chest. 'Call my daughter that again and you're dead. Not that you won't die anyway.'

'Give us the damned Key, Mercer.' There was a rising heat in my voice, and I made no effort to check it. 'Maybe then I'll make it quick for you. Gods know that's more mercy than you showed my father.'

'Your father! Your damn father – is that all you care about?'

'No. I care a fair bit more about the people who are still alive. Like my mother, whose life you destroyed. And the Guild, _my_ Guild, which you lied to and betrayed. And I'm pretty pissed at the whole stabbing thing. I can't let anyone stab me and get away with it, it'd give people ideas. Oh, and then there's the Daedric Prince who'd probably try to kill me somehow if I let you live.'

Mercer's lip curled. 'You think she cares? Let me tell you, she doesn't. Nocturnal doesn't care about you, the Key, or anything having to do with the Guild.'

'Then forget Nocturnal. At risk of sounding like I'm in a Gods-damn book, this is personal.'

'Revenge, is it? Have you learned nothing from our time with us?' He had started to pace back and forth, just as he'd done in Snow Veil Sanctum as he'd faced down my mother. 'When will you open your eyes and realise how little my actions differ from yours? Both of us lie, cheat and steal to further our own ends!'

I shrugged. 'Yeah. Yeah, you're right. I'm no hero. I'm a scruffy little kleptomaniac with more sass than sense. But there's still a difference between us. I know when to draw the line. I know that some things are just plain _wrong._ I've also got the brains not to piss off a Daedric Prince.'

'But what can she do about it? With the Key gone, she can barely exert any influence on Nirn. You three idiots are her only hope, and you'll die here in this cave. How can you not see the Skeleton Key as I do – an instrument of limitless wealth? Instead, you've chosen to fall over your own foolish code!'

A loud snort escaped me. 'Code? I don't have a code. I just go with what my gut tells me. And right now, my gut says that if anyone falls, it's gonna be you.'

Mercer's eyes narrowed to slits. 'Then the die is cast, and once again my blade will taste Nightingale blood.'

'Not likely!' my mother snapped, and the _twang_ of her bowstring rang out, just audible to my sensitive ears over the roar of the water. I waited, breath caught in my throat, to see the shaft hit home – but Mercer raised one hand. A bluish shield of magic fanned out around his fingers, encircling his body and knocking the arrow aside.

'None of that, thank you, Karliah,' he said smoothly. 'I think this is between me and your loud-mouthed brat. I'll deal with you once I've disciplined your girl. And in the meantime, why don't you and Brynjolf get better acquainted?'

Another flash of magic. I whirled around in time to see it strike Brynjolf dead in the chest – and to see Brynjolf jerk unnaturally, then throw himself at my mother with daggers raised and glinting in the half-light. Thank the Gods for the lightning-fast reflexes that twenty-five years in the wilderness can give you, or she might have died there and then.

'What's happening?' Brynjolf's voice was - understandably - panicked. 'I can't stop myself…'

'Damn you, Mercer!' my mother snarled, and I couldn't have agreed with her more. 'Fight it, Brynjolf- he's taken control of you!'

'I'm sorry, lass. I – I can't – '

I whipped back around to face Mercer. He was grinning.

'Eff you,' I said flatly, and do you think I said eff?

His response to this was to lift one hand, curl his fingers around yet another spell, and blink out of sight. I hissed in frustration, and took a few steps forward, so that I was standing in the centre of the rapidly-growing pool. If he thought that invisibility would allow him to attack me from behind, he had another think coming.

It was only a few seconds before I caught the distinctive sound of feet splashing through water behind me. I waited, sword raised, every muscle in my body taut and ready, until the splashes had almost reached me; then I spun around and lifted my blade into a block. Just in time; a half-second later Mercer flashed back into view, his blade crashing down in my direction. Our swords met with a clash that rebounded off the walls of the cave, and the force of his blow sent me stumbling back a pace. I didn't need to be told that I was at a disadvantage here – Mercer was taller, bulkier, stronger, more experienced. And he had the bloody Skeleton Key.

But I had a few tricks up my sleeve as well.

As Mercer lunged in again, I parried a second time. This time, though, I grounded myself firmly so that even with all his weight behind the blow, I only slid back a short way. He pushed against my blade until my arms were aching down to the very bones – and just as he seemed to think that he had me, I released my left hand's grip on my sword hilt and reached forward. Mercer's eyes widened – he knew what was coming – but he was too late to pull free of the blade-lock before my fire spell was searing its way through the air towards him.

Oh, he leaped away, of course, but not in time to stop my spell from striking home. He reeled back, snarling in pain like a wounded dog, a vicious red burn across his neck and half his face and his leathers smoking. The gold light of healing magic lit up his palm, but I gave him no time to cast the spell. I was the one on the offensive now, fire lancing from my fingertips and my father's sword gripped tight in my hand as I pressed forwards, slashing and jabbing at him as he stumbled back to escape the flames. He managed to break free long enough to cast another invisibility spell, but the trail of wet footprints his boots left on the stones gave him away. I followed him up the stairway, hurling firebolts in his direction. This, I knew, was the only way I was going to win – if I pressed him and pressed him until he panicked or tired or made a mistake.

He knew my tactic, naturally He was a thief, and no good thief is too stupid to work out a battle strategy. So he cast his invisibility spell again and again, his body fading away from view so that he could escape my barrage of flame. And I would have to strain my ears to catch the sound of him creeping up behind me, and I would have to counter the strike he sent at my back – always at my back, the coward. Once I mistimed it, didn't turn in time to parry, and his blade sliced through my leathers and bit into the flesh of my arm. But I leaped back in time to stop the sword from cutting too deep and sent another fire spell at him to drive him back before he could press the attack.

And so, gritting my teeth and doing my best to block out the pain, I fought on. Sword clashed against sword, the water level in the chamber grew steadily higher, and our duel kept moving, up the back of the statue, over its shoulders and down its arm, onto the book it clutched in its vast hand. Mercer had stopped trying to vanish and attack in secret; perhaps he'd realised I wasn't going to be taken down by that trick.

'Your father fought better than this, you know,' Mercer snarled, as we broke apart, pacing around each other slowly, both of us breathing in hard gasps. 'He was a finer swordsman than you could ever hope to be. It's a pity he turned his back to me, isn't it?'

He lunged again, and I brought up my blade to block. The impact sent me staggering again. Gods, this had to end soon. I was tiring much too quickly for comfort.

'So what you're saying is, you'd never have been able to kill him if you hadn't been a cowardly backstabbing traitor?'

His eyes were practically slits. 'I'm saying that if a fighter like him died at my hand, what chance do you think you have?'

I whirled to the side and slashed at his neck, a blow that nearly – _so nearly_ – connected. 'It's a ghost of a chance, but so what? Ghosts can be pretty deadly.'

'Mongrel elves aren't,' he snapped.

'You know, Bretons were originally elf-human hybrids, and you're a Breton, so it's kind of hypocritical if you're going to mock me for being a half-blood.'

I sent another gout of flame at him. He sidestepped and made another swipe at my stomach, as if to open up the wound my mother had closed

'Gallus and I used to train together, you know,' he said. 'Plenty of my moves come from him. Ironic, isn't it, that you'll be bested by skills your own father gave me?'

I clenched my jaw and said nothing.

'For example.' Mercer drew back and stood a short distance from me, a half-smile playing across his features. 'He taught me that if one catches another's blade and flicks across and up in _just_ the right way – '

He moved fast, inhumanly fast, too fast for me to see and definitely too fast for me to stop him. To this day I'm not entirely sure how it happened. One moment, my sword was firmly grasped in my hand. The next, Mercer had slipped his blade beneath it, twisted his hand in a deft flick, and wrenched the weapon from my grip.

I leaped back, eyes widening. The sword clattered onto the stone and skidded across the surface of the carved book, coming to a stop near the edge.

Everything seemed suddenly still, though the water from the broken pipe was still pouring down from the roof. I looked at my fallen weapon, and back at Mercer, and realised that he thought he had won. And maybe he had. I was unarmed. I could run for my sword, try to retrieve it – but I'd be completely exposing myself to him. There was no way I would make it in time. I had my fire magic, yes, but something told me that Mercer would just storm right through it, risk the pain for the sake of ending this here and now. I had nothing.

Unless.

I sucked in a slow, shaky breath and reached for the spark of magic within me. _Please work. Oh, Gods above, and Nocturnal, if you're listening, please let this work. Just this once. Please._

And as I finished thinking that panicky little prayer, the world slammed back into movement. Mercer charged me, head down like a bull, sword levelled at my chest. I closed my eyes, spread out my fingers, and _reached –_

My fingers flooded with cold, and I knew that Mercer had been wrong. _I_ had won.

Frost shot forth from my hands, not aimed at Mercer, but at the stone floor between us. The blue-white crystals spread out over the surface – only for a second. Just a single heartbeat before the spell faltered and died. I always was a disaster with ice magic. But that thin coating of frost was enough. Enough to send Mercer's feet sliding out from under him as he ran at me, enough to send him crashing to the ground.

Enough to buy me time to leap the distance between myself and my sword, and snatch it up. Enough for me to whirl around and race towards my enemy, still stumbling to his feet. Enough to kick his weapon from his hand as he tried to rise, and to grasp his wrist in my left hand, and to pull him up so that his chest was open, exposed, vulnerable.

I didn't hesitate. I didn't even consider hesitating. My hand flashed forward and punched my blade into his flesh.

He stiffened, his body suddenly as rigid as if I'd cast another ice spell, strong enough to freeze him solid. His fingers curled inwards, grasping at the air. Planting my feet solidly as I could, I threw all my weight behind my sword arm, driving the blade deeper, _deeper,_ until at last he cried out, a choking, guttering sound, charged with pain and fear.

Only then did I look down at his face.

'That's for my father, you son of a bitch!' I roared.

For a few breathless moments, he stared at me, eyes stretched wide, mouth hanging open, a few bubbles of blood welling up in his mouth. I met that frantic, agonised gaze, and I felt no regret. Maybe I should have. Maybe I should have mourned the man he once was, the Guildmaster I had respected. But there was nothing but cold triumph in me as I withdrew my blade and let him slump to the floor. First to his knees, then onto his front, his sword slipping through his fingers and clattering onto the stone.

The water was still crashing down into the chamber, faster and louder with every passing second. But I was still able to catch the words Mercer gasped out, his voice faint and fading, spitting blood onto the floor as he spoke.

'Shadows… take me…'

Then a few more heaving gasps, and silence. No steady fading away, just a sudden _stop_ to his breathing. I'd seen men die before, I'd killed plenty, but there was something different about this. Never before had I killed someone I'd known, and looked up to.

I felt no grief, though. He didn't deserve my grief.

So I kicked his body onto its back with one foot, unfastened the satchel in which he'd placed the Eyes of the Falmer, and slung it over my body. Then I knelt beside him and, after digging through a few pockets, closed my hand around a cool, thin object which seemed to vibrate softly at my touch. I pulled it free and lifted it up to the light – a small bronze key, with a green stone set at the end.

'I've got it!' I shouted, spinning around. 'I've got the Key –'

And I stopped, my voice dying in my throat. Because on the platform build against the door to the chamber, my mother was lying slumped against one wall, her hands pressed against her side. Even from a distance, I could see the splash of red across her armour.

I shoved the key into one of my carrying pouches, and cupped my hands around my mouth. 'What happened?'

'I couldn't stop it.' Brynjolf gave a small, desperate shake of his head. 'I'm _sorry,_ lass – '

'I'll live.' My mother's voice was shaky, but firm. 'I have healing potions. For now, we just need to focus on getting out of here.'

As if to remind her that this would be no easy task, the entire cavern jolted beneath our feet. I stumbled, waving my arms inelegantly to steady myself, and glanced up. More of the pipes had split open, and there were dark cracks running through the rock ceiling.

I looked down at Mercer's limp form. 'You bloody idiot,' I growled, and kicked him unceremoniously into the pool.

'This place is coming down!' My mother grasped the wall and hauled herself to her feet, one had still clasping her wound. 'Melyna – you have the Key and the eyes?'

'Yup.'

'Then let's get out of here. Brynjolf – '

My mentor was grappling with the chamber door, and a cold pulse of dread ran through me when his tugs had no effect. 'No luck there, lass. Something must have fallen on the other side of the door, because it isn't moving!'

I wrenched the Key from my pocket. 'This opens all doors, right?'

'It _unlocks_ all doors!' my mother shouted. 'The door's blocked, not locked!'

'But Mercer was able to push down an entire tower earlier. Surely we could –'

'Mercer had years to attune himself to the Key and figure out how to access its power. It's not something that can be mastered in five minutes.'

The water was lapping at the edges of the stone book now. I drew back, wrapping my arms around my chest. 'Would this be a good time to mention that I can't swim?'

My mother had pulled down her hood and mask, and I saw her eyes widen in horror. 'You can't _swim?'_

'I was raised by Khajiit! Khajiit hate water! Where in the name of Dibella's flaming knickers was I supposed to learn how to swim?'

I'm not sure I want to describe what followed in too much detail, Leo. I don't think I could do it justice, anyway. There aren't words to describe the kind of animal fear that steals through you as you watch water rising, slowly, unrelentingly, heartlessly rising. As you're forced to flounder in it, thrashing desperately and grasping at rocks and walls to keep yourself from sinking, panicking no matter how much your companions tell you not to. As you hunt, your efforts growing ever more frantic, for a way out, and find none. And still find none.

The cut in my arm left a thin red trail through the water as I kicked out unsteadily towards my mother. She looked at me for a moment, then reached out and took hold of my hand. I closed my fingers around her and held on tight. There were only a few metres of air left above us now.

'I'm sorry,' she whispered. 'I should never have brought you into this.'

I shook my head. 'I brought myself into it. I came looking for you, it's how I ended up with the Guild. I chose this, and I'd chose it again.'

'I don't know if the Key can ever be retrieved.' She bit her lip. 'Even if Nocturnal ever gained new Nightingales, how could any of them ever find the Key here?'

'Not to worry,' I said, forcing some enthusiasm into my voice. 'She just needs to make sure the next trinity is made up of Argonians. They breathe underwater, right?'

She let out a short, sad-sounding laugh.

I slipped my free hand into my pocket, gripping the Key tightly. All these deaths – my father's, Mercer's, and now the three of us – all for this sodding thing. And it couldn't even do anything to get us out of this.

It was still vibrating every so softly. I closed my eyes, focusing on that tiny movement. Surely, _surely,_ there was some way I could use this Key. Nocturnal had caused my birth, tugged the strings of fate to lead me to this. She wouldn't leave me to die, not when she'd brought me into existence so that I could return the Key to her. That wasn't how the Daedra worked, abandoning servants before their tasks were done.

 _Help us, I thought,_ squeezing my eyes as tightly shut as they'd go. The water was lapping at my chin now, and I knew it would soon be over my head. _Give us a way out. Anything. I can't die here. I promised Marcurio –_

The cave shook again, to its very foundations, and there was a sudden, sharp crash of rock. Brynjolf cried out, and I snapped my eyes open in time to see a pile of boulders break free of the ceiling and splash down into the water – leaving a passage open behind them.

Brynjolf shouted again, with triumph this time, and struck out for that beautiful opening. My mother and I followed, staying close to each other, her reaching out to balance me as I floundered forward. The water closed over my head but only for a moment, just for a single heartbeat before I broke through it and into the air beyond. And at last we were there, and Brynjolf was helping us up, and we were stumbling through the tunnel - trailing water and blood but _alive._

We sat in silence in that cave for several minutes, unfastening our armour and splashing healing brews onto our wounds. The gash in my arm mended quickly, leaving nothing but a thin scar and a faint tingling sensation, but the stab wound below my mother's ribs was more of a danger. Her armour had fended off the worst of it, but Brynjolf's dagger had gone deep; an hair's breadth deeper, and he'd have hit something vital. The skin had knitted back together, thanks to several potions, but I didn't want to think about how much blood she'd lost.

Not until the wound was bound and more or less tended to did all three of us sit back and let out sighs of relief.

'I can't believe it's over,' my mother said quietly. 'Twenty five years in exile, and just like that… it's done.'

I shrugged 'I wouldn't call it 'just like that.' I mean, Mercer nearly killed me, Bryn nearly killed you, and then that flood nearly killed all three of us. It's not as if it was a walk in the park.'

Brynjolf snorted. 'Tell me it gets easier from here on in.'

My mother inclined her head a little. 'I hope so. All that remains is to ensure the safe return of the Skeleton Key.'

I drew it from my pocket, holding it up to the light. 'And sometimes tells me that while it might not be quite as difficult as surviving drowning in a creepy cavern, that's still not going to be as simple as it sounds.'

She smiled wryly. 'I'm afraid so.'

'Go on, then. Shatter my dreams and tell me just how much hell we have to go through this time.'

'I don't know,' she admitted. 'Not for certain. When the Skeleton Key was stolen, our access to the inner sanctum was removed. The only way to bring it back will be through the Pilgrim's Path. It's a passage of some kind, leading to the sanctum – but it wasn't built for the Nightingales. It was created to test those who wished to serve Nocturnal in other ways. And as a consequence… I have no idea what'll be facing us.'

My eyebrows shot up my forehead. 'Us?'

She bit her lip. 'I always thought I'd be too afraid to go to the Sanctum – to see Nocturnal face to face. Not after my failure to protect the Key. Falling in love with Gallus… for so many years, I've told myself that it was wrong. A distraction that caused his death and allowed the Key to be taken. But meeting you, coming to know you – I think I was mistaken. If being with Gallus made you, how could it be wrong? You're my daughter. I can't let you face this on your own.'

I folded my arms. 'That's very touching and everything. Seriously, it is. But it would seem to have escaped your notice that you just lost about enough blood to fill every mead tankard in the Ragged Flagon.'

'Nonsense. I'll be fine.'

As if to prove her point, she rose to her feet, staggered, and promptly sat down again.

I raised my eyebrows still further. 'I rest my case.'

Her only response was to let out a long, heavy sigh and bow her head.

I gazed at her for a few moments, then stood and crossed the cave, kneeling in front of her. 'Hey. I'll be fine. I just killed the guy armed with a powerful Daedric artefact. This'll be easy.'

'I have every faith that you can do this,' she murmured. 'Still… you'll forgive a mother worrying for her daughter's safety. And I can't help but be angry with myself for being so relieved to avoid going.'

Brynjolf coughed quietly. 'Mel, lass – I hate to say it, but I don't reckon I can go with you. I need to get back to the Guild, tell them what happened. If I don't head back to keep order, things'll fall apart there quickly.'

'Fine. That's fine. Really.' And, oddly enough, it was. It didn't daunt me at all, the thought of facing this final stretch of the journey alone. Perhaps it was because of that moment in the cavern, when I'd most needed help and it had come to me. Maybe I'd found a way to access the Key's power after all, or maybe Nocturnal had exerted what little of her power she could in order to protect her Nightingales. Whatever the cause, I felt protected. I felt safe.

I straightened up, tapped my father's sword to make sure it was still there, and reached for the strap that bound my quiver, only to realise that it was gone. Of course – I'd cast it off before fighting Mercer, after my bow had fallen from my hand. And now my favourite weapon was probably buried under a cave full of water.

'Well, shit,' I muttered.

My mother frowned at me, but after a second her expression shifted from disapproval to concern. 'Your bow…'

'Dropped it when I fell off that platform. Didn't have time to find it before the place started filling up with water.'

She nodded slowly, and pulled her own weapon down from her back. 'Then take this with you.'

I'd normally never hesitate when being offered a shiny and powerful new weapon. But this time I did, my hand hovering in the air, before reaching out and closing my fingers around the cool, damp leather binding the grip. I'd seen my mother use this bow as if it were an extension of her own body, taking out Falmer from an impossible distance. This weapon had seen her through twenty five years alone. I knew that parting with it could not be easy.

Then again, seeing her daughter walk off into trouble alone without proper weapons would probably be even less easy.

'Thanks,' I said, and I hope she knew just how much I meant it.

'I've had that almost my entire life,' she told me. 'It belonged to my mother, and her father before her, both of them Nightingales. It's never let me down, and I hope it brings you the same luck.'

I grinned. 'You know, I'm not sure I really believed in luck 'til recently. Shows what I know.'

I slung the bow over my back, followed by the quiver, and drew in a breath. 'Right. Time to get moving.'

My mother stepped forwards and – gingerly, what with that recent wound – put her arms around me. 'Stay safe, Melyna. Eyes open. Walk with the shadows.'

And so we parted ways, heading out of the passageway and into the open air. My map was sodden and ruined in several places, but my leather pouch had protected it just enough for my mother to be able to mark out the position of the Twilight Sepulchre. And I headed towards it, turning southwest towards Falkreath, while my companions travelled straight south in the direction of Riften.

It was a warm evening – or what passes for warm in Skyrim – so my leathers dried out a little as I made my way through the pine forests. I had reached the verge of the Whiterun plains by the time it became too dark to journey on; I had no tent, so instead I clambered up into a tree, strapping myself to the trunk with my belt. It was an uncomfortable place to sleep, but after the day I'd had, it would have taken a troupe of bards bellowing _Ragnar the Red_ into my earhole to keep me awake.

Dawn came; I tested my mother's bow by shooting a woodpigeon before coaxing a fire out of some snow-damp wood to cook it. I ate as I walked, glad for the openness of the plains letting the sun fall straight onto me. _Walk with the shadows,_ my mother had said, but walking in sunlight was a far better way to dry your still-sodden leather jacket.

The Whiterun tundra is a long distance to travel by foot. But I had been raised by a Khajiit caravan; walking long distances had never been a struggle for me. The moon was inching its way above the mountains by the time I stood outside the Twilight Sepulchre, but I had made it within the day.

At first, the Sepulchre seemed to be nothing more than yet another of the many rocky passages carved into Skyrim's hills and mountains, but turning only a single corner brought me out into a vast hall, as tall and wide as the Cistern. I'd seen enough caverns the previous day to last me a lifetime, but there was no denying that there was something about this place that demanded respect. There was a power here, a kind of energy that thrummed within the very ground I walked on. I doubt anyone could have entered there without knowing they had stepped inside a Daedric-touched place.

It was as I thought that, I remember, that I looked to see the spirit standing in front of me.

Instantly, I was glad that the coldness outside had driven me to pull up my hood and mask against the wind as night drew closer; I'd never yet encountered a ghost of any kind within an ancient crypt and found it friendly, and I might need all the protection I could get. Yet it made no move to attack as I inched closer, simply standing and watching, its blue form flickering so that at times it was barely visible.

'Before I move any closer,' I shouted, 'are you going to give me any trouble? Because honestly, I've had a shitty couple of days, I slept in a tree last night, and if I have to start fighting again now, we might as well get it over with.'

A soft, slightly bemused chuckle came from the spirit's direction, and it took a few steps towards me. The movement was my answer, because as it drew nearer I realised that it the armour it wore - spectral, but recognisable – was a ghostly copy of my own. This was no malevolent entity; it was the ghost of a fellow Nightingale.

'I don't believe I know you, but I sense that you're one of us.' There was something distinctly ethereal about his voice – it echoed oddly in the air in a way no living mortal's voice would. 'In which case, no. There's no need for any hostility between us.'

I let out a short huff of relief. 'Frigging good to hear.'

The spirit's eyes were invisible behind his ghostly mask, but I knew that he was examining me carefully. 'Who are you?'

'You first,' I said, folding my arms.

A sigh came from him. 'The last of the Nightingale sentinels, I'm afraid. I've defended the Sepulchre alone for what feels like an eternity.'

'Last?' I repeated. 'Thought all Nightingales who copped it were meant to end up here. Until they went to… that Evergloam place.'

'That's correct. A few of my fellow sentinels are indeed within the walls of the Sepulchre, but…' Another sigh, heavier this time. 'They no longer remember their purpose, or their former identities. They were… friends of mine, when I lived. My teachers and brother and sister Nightingales. Now they are lost, and only I remain.'

I frowned. 'How'd that happen? What made them change?'

'I did.' He turned his head away, his shoulders bowing. 'I'm to blame for what's happened here. I was blinded, blinded by dark treachery masquerading as friendship.' His voice grew bitter. 'I could have prevented all of this. If I had just been more vigilant, then – then Mercer wouldn't have lured me to my fate and stolen the Skeleton Key.'

I stood motionless, my mouth half open and my eyes wide.

The spirit, receiving no response to his little speech, raised his head and looked at me. 'Nightingale? Are you all right?'

My fingers, to my frustration, were trembling ever so slightly as I pushed down my mask and hood, shaking my hair free and making sure that I was standing in the light so that he could see my face. His gasp echoed through the chamber, and he stumbled back a step as if his surprise had punched him in the gut.

'Yeah,' I said faintly. 'Yeah, I'm fine. Only… I think I just worked out that you're my father.'

* * *

 **Hmm. Seems that normally, in fiction, the parent is the one to stun the child with the revelation of their shared blood, Darth Vader-style. I must say I rather enjoyed turning the tables. XD**

 **So, Mercer is dealt with, Mel is meeting the father she's heard so much about, and this story, I'm afraid, is winding to a close. There'll probably be only one chapter left to come - and I'll do my best to make sure it's a good one. Thanks so much for reading!**


	9. End Of Story (For Now)

**And here we are at last! It's taken quite a while to write, but here, finally, is the last installment of Melyna's story. It involves a little bit of tweaking of canon game events, but since the basic premise of this entire story sort of breaks the canon, I hope no one will mind.**

 **Thank you all so much for reading. I hope you've enjoyed it so far, and that you'll enjoy this final chapter.**

* * *

CHAPTER EIGHT – END OF STORY (FOR NOW)

The lantern-glow flickered, making my shadow shimmer from black to grey and back again. My father's ghost stared at me, his spectral form still as frozen water, his eyes – what little I could see of them behind his mask – very, very wide.

Slowly, he lifted a hand and pushed down his hood and mask. And at last, I saw his face. It was softer than I'd imagined, more boyish, but the eyes that met mine were undeniably sharp. There was no colour in his features, of course, everything was washed out into ethereal blue, but I found my mind filling in the colour. He'd had the darkest eyes, my mother had told me, and brown hair like mine. He looked at me, and I was suddenly, bizarrely, reminded of an owl. Something soft-looking, but with eyes that pierced. A creature of the shadows, quiet and patient but with talons always ready.

And suddenly I was seeing myself in this semi-transparent face. I'd always been told that I was the mirror image of my mother, but when I called up a mental image of my own reflection, I could see the tiniest traces of this man's features in my own. Still, I knew that it was my mother I resembled most, and it occurred to me just how strange it must be for him. Seeing a stranger standing in front of him, a scruffier, crimson-eyed copy of the woman he'd loved. Feeling suddenly awkward, I coughed and looked away.

'Gods,' he breathed, and took a step towards me.

'Nocturnal, actually.' I rubbed the back of my neck. 'She said some… weirdness about pulling the strings of fortune to make sure I was born, or something, and I guess I'm rambling aren't I so I should stop. But, yeah. I'm… Karliah's daughter. Which you probably worked out, since everyone says I look exactly like her. And I'm your daughter. Like I said. Yeah.'

 _That was the least elegant speech you ever gave in your life,_ I told myself. _Ten marks off in the style department, Melyna._

The spirit's voice – my father's voice – cracked slightly as he spoke. 'I had no idea. None at all.'

'Neither did my mother. Not until after… until after you were dead.'

This was incredibly surreal, I realised, speaking to a man about his own death. But then, practically everything that had happened over the last few days had been surreal in some shape or form. I'd met a missing mother, made a pact with Nocturnal herself and held a Daedric artefact in my hand. After all that, speaking with my father's ghost shouldn't even really have been too surprising.

He shook his head, his eyes still round (and more owl-like than ever.) 'If I'd known… If I'd had any idea that Karliah was –'

'Then you wouldn't have gone to the Sanctum. Yeah. But you didn't know, and you did go, and here we are.'

'That's true enough.' A frown crossed his face. 'I don't even know your name.'

I shrugged. 'There's no reason why you should, since you've known about my existence for all of about thirty seconds. But it's Melyna.'

'Melyna,' he repeated, slowly and carefully, as if my name were a fine wine to be sipped and savoured. 'That's… beautiful.'

'Glad you like it,' I said. 'I just wish you'd had a chance to help choose it.'

'As do I.'

We stood there for a few moments in silence, just looking at each other. The stunned disbelief was fading from his face, to be replaced by something I could only describe as wonder.

'How long has it been?' he asked.

'Twenty five years.'

He made a small _hrmm_ sound. 'Well. That's not as long as I'd feared. Though still more than I'd like. By the Gods, I had a daughter for twenty five years without knowing. _'_

'Well, I guess we're even, then. Since I went twenty-five years without knowing who either of my parents were.'

'You didn't know?' The frown was back on his face. 'How? Surely Karliah –'

He snapped off the end of the sentence, fiddling restlessly with the hem of his cloak. 'What happened to her?'

 _Nothing good,_ I thought, and wondered how to explain. All the shared blood in the world couldn't help me to understand and know a man I'd only known for a minute. Everything I knew about him came from the words we'd just shared and the stories that the Guild and my mother had told me. And it wasn't enough – it definitely wasn't enough – to know how he'd respond to everything I had to say. Would he be angry at my mother, or disappointed, for leaving me with Ahkari? Would he understand? And then I had to somehow explain that the woman he'd loved had been forced to spend twenty five years on the run, framed for his own murder.

None of it was pleasant, and none of it would be easy for him.

I decided to start at the beginning. To start with what had happened directly after his death in the Sanctum, and to keep going until I reached this very moment. And so, haltingly, I told the story as best I could. The story of my mother's flight from the Guild, and of her lucky happening upon the Khajiit caravan ( _very_ lucky, now I considered it, almost as if Nocturnal had led her there), and of my years being raised by Ahkari and how I'd eventually found my way to the Guild, and how the Guild had been falling apart without him, without my father there to lead them and a traitor at their head. And how I'd uncovered the clues that had led me to my mother, how she'd saved my life, how we'd proved her innocence together and restored the Nightingales. How we'd ventured into Irkngthand and – I confess, I told this part with rather more flare and boastfulness than the rest of the tale – how I'd bested Mercer in that desperate duel. And how I'd been given charge of the Skeleton Key to return to the Sepulchre, and how here I was now, intending to do just that.

He was a quiet audience, listening with his eyes fixed on my face, interrupting only to ask an occasional question, or to let out a long, slow sigh. And when I was done, he closes his eyes and nodded.

'It's over, then,' he murmured. 'When I went to face Mercer, I truly believed I could find a way to stop him… to convince him to turn from the path he was following. If I had had the chance, I don't know if I would even have been able to kill him. I'm glad you were able to finish what I started.'

His voice was oddly… heavy. Regretful.

'You're not mourning the man who murdered you, are you?' I asked.

'I am,' he said simply. 'Mercer and I were both still very young when the Guild recruited us. We were friends for so long. I inducted him into the Nightingales because there was no one I trusted more, even though his temperament was not exactly… well, he was far less respectful than most Nightingales. Perhaps he was never suitable for the role. It was an injudicious choice, I suppose.'

I blinked. 'Injure-what?'

'Injudicious. Showing poor judgement or lack of thought.'

A grin tugged at the corner of my mouth. 'Mother was right about you, then. She said you were always using fancy words.'

'Nothing wrong with having an erudite vocabulary,' he said primly.

'Well, there is, if no one can understand you.'

He folded his arms. 'Why, Melyna. Surely you're too old to be embarrassed by your father?'

I couldn't help but laugh at that, and I felt warmth stir inside me when he laughed too, laughed with a deep throaty chuckle. If it weren't for Mercer, I would have grown up hearing that sound every day. My father might mourn the traitor, but I knew that I never could.

'Anyway. My poor decisions are in the past now. As is Mercer Frey.' He sighed yet again, but carried on. 'You've done our Guild a great service. If they're the same as I remember, then I doubt they'll show it, but I'm certain they appreciate your sacrifices. Taking a pledge to Nocturnal is no small thing.'

I shrugged. 'I'd have ended up taking it anyway, though, wouldn't I? If you'd never died. You'd have raised me ready to take that Oath.'

'Perhaps. I would have wanted it to be your choice, and I wish it had been, rather than something forced upon you by circumstance. Though doubtless Karliah would have wanted it for you – she comes from a line of Nightingales, you know.'

I shook my head. 'No. I didn't.'

'Ask her about it. Her family have a fascinating story. You're a direct descendant of Queen Barenziah, incidentally.'

'I'm _what?'_

There was a definite spark of mischief in his eyes now, and suddenly I understood just why this man had become a thief.

'A descendant of Queen Barenziah – though one with no legitimate claim to royalty, I'm afraid.'

'Right. Look, I've had enough family-related revelations over the last few days to last me a lifetime, so let's leave it there, all right? Next thing I know, I'll be finding out I share blood with that legendary Dunmer guy, you know, the one in all their stories. You know, Nerevar.'

He tilted his head on one side, grinning. 'Well, _actually –_ '

'Stop it!'

'Like I said, ask your mother about it.' His expression grew suddenly sober. 'I think of all the news you've given me, learning that she's alive is the thing it relieved me most to hear, far more than knowing that the Key is safe. I feared she'd fallen the same fate as I, ending up a victim of Mercer's betrayal. And I suppose she did, but… at least she lives. At least she didn't die for my mistakes.'

There was so much sudden bitterness in his voice that I found myself suddenly fumbling in my pocket for the Key. 'Then you should take the Key back. You're the one who got hurt most by all this. You've got more right than me to end it.'

'More right than the woman who lived twenty five years as an outcast, or the daughter who grew up without knowing her parents?' He shook his head. 'No. And even if I felt able to take that right from you… I'm afraid it's impossible. Melyna, know that I would stand at your side against all the dangers of this place if I could. But I cannot. Ever since I arrived here, I've felt myself… well… dying.'

'Again?'

He let out a quick, rueful laugh. 'I know, it's strange for a spirit to talk about his own death. But as you might have guessed, it comes back to the Key. The Sepulchre isn't merely a vault or a temple to house it. Within these walls is the Ebonmere – a conduit to Nocturnal's realm of Evergloam.'

I nodded. 'I know that much. And Nocturnal said something about… the Key being removed meaning that she couldn't influence Nirn much, or something.'

'Exactly. When Mercer stole the Key, that conduit closed, severely limiting our ties to Nocturnal. For the Thieves Guild, that means a drying up of the luck we enjoyed for years. You told me it was failing, dying – that was caused by the closing of the Ebonmere. And for me, it means that without any restoration of the power that's been keeping me here… I'm weakening. I can feel myself slipping away. It's why the other Nightingale sentinels have lost their memories of their identities and their purpose.'

'But I can stop that, right?' My heartbeat had quickened, and I reflected vaguely on how strange it was for me to feel so concerned for a man I barely knew, just because we shared blood. 'You're not going to die again. I take the Key back, and everything's fixed?'

'I believe so.'

I sucked in a breath. 'Right. Follow the path, give Nocturnal her Key back, save you and the Guild and every thief in existence. Got it.'

He nodded, and we stood looking at each other for some moments. It felt to me that there was more to be said. I doubted that many people ever got to come face-to-face with their dead parent. I had a chance that plenty of people would have killed to have, a chance to talk to him, to meet him as I'd never had a chance to. The only problem was that I didn't have a damn idea what to say to him.

So I was fortunate that he spoke first. 'Melyna… I don't think this is a situation many fathers have been in before. Well, I'm sure plenty of men learn that they have children they didn't know about, but not…' He coughed delicately. 'Not in this way, exactly.'

'True enough.'

'But… well, as surprises go, this was an extremely pleasant one. I wish that things could have been different. I wish that I could have lived to raise you.'

I swallowed; my throat was uncomfortably tight. 'Yeah. Me too.'

'If I have a right to be proud of a daughter I've only known for a few minutes, then I'm proud. Proud that you followed in my footsteps, and that you saved my Guild… our Guild. I'd give – well, anything, I think, to turn back time and have a chance at being a real father to you. But I can't. So… I'll just thank Nocturnal and every Divine that might be listening for giving us this chance to meet.'

'Same.' I breathed in deeply. 'Look, I'm not good with emotional cra… stuff. It just doesn't come to me, you know? But all my time with the Guild, people told me that you were a great leader, a good man, and all that. So when I found out you were my father, I was pretty damn pissed at Mercer for taking everything we could have had. And maybe all we get is five minutes in some creepy Daedric temple, but I'm glad to have had those five minutes. So… yeah.'

A smile spread across his face, and he nodded. 'This was certainly a fortuitous meeting.'

'Fortui-what now?'

'Fortuitous. Adjective, meaning loosely, 'happening by lucky chance.' A word someone in our line of business should really know.'

'Whatever. I'm glad I didn't inherit any pages from that dictionary you obviously swallowed at some point.' I rocked back and forth on my heels, knowing it was time for me to go, and not knowing how to leave. 'So… I'd best… get down to saving the Guild. It was nice, you know, talking.'

Another of those gentle chuckles. 'That it was, Melyna. I wonder, could you…'

He stopped, sighed, and tried again. 'Will you tell Karliah that… well.'

He broke off the sentence a second time, glancing away as if embarrassed. But I knew how that sentence would have ended, and so I nodded.

'I'm pretty sure she knows,' I said quietly. 'But yeah. I'll tell her.'

'Thank you. And… may Nocturnal watch over you. We'll see each other again – if not here, then in the Evergloam, someday. All three of us.'

He smiled and stepped to the side, leaving the path forward open. 'Eyes open, Melyna. Walk with the shadows.'

* * *

It was almost anticlimactic, in the end. After the trials of the Pilgrim's Path, returning the Key was simple.

The Key's lock in the centre of the sealed Ebonmere conduit stood at the centre of a small, circular, dimly-lit room with walls carved out from grey rock. It was ringed with archways leading not to passages, but only to shallow alcoves in the walls. The only thing of note in the chamber was the series of engraved circles on the floor – and at their centre was a disc of something that was cool as stone to the touch, but which shimmered like metal. It was in this silver circle that I found the Key's lock, a simple slot smaller than a Septim coin.

I bent down and slid the Key inside, and, when nothing happened, I remembered what I was doing. Unlocking a door. So I twisted it, there was a faint clicking sound, the key shuddered in my hand, and sank down out of my grip and into its place.

I stepped back, wondering if that was all, and if so, how in the name of every Divine and Daedric Prince I was going to get out of the chamber. But it wasn't all. Because the moment I had stepped out of the carved circles, they seared with light and rose upwards, forming a tower like one of those children's toys where an infant's clumsy hands have to stack shapes on top of each other. And then they slid downwards and out of sight, and something rose up in their place. Something shadowy, something surrounded by a purple glow.

In the same instant, more blurs of purple flashed at the edges of my vision. I twisted my head around and saw that the archways I had thought to be merely decorative had filled with shimmering sheets of indigo light. And one of those sheets suddenly rippled, fluttering as if a bird were beating its wings against it, before parting down the middle. A figure emerged from the glow, a slender figure in armour that matched mine.

'I thought you weren't coming,' I said, though my words were almost drowned out by a sudden screeching noise. Glancing to my left, I saw birds – black things with flapping wings and taloned feet – spiralling upwards from the conduit I had opened, circling around the dark shape- a shape gradually growing clearer and clearer.

My mother hurried forwards to stand beside me. 'As soon as my wound was seen to, I went to Nightingale Hall to wait for the portals to the inner sanctum to re-open. I wanted to be here to see your success for myself.' She turned her head towards the centre of the room. 'But I think I'll be seeing rather more than I bargained for.'

'What do you –?' I began, then stopped. Because the answer had materialised in front of me. The dark shape had become a figure, the figure of a woman wearing a dark grey robe. Or almost wearing it. There wasn't really all that much robe to wear.

The purple glow and the screeching flock of shadow-formed birds died away. And Nocturnal hovered in front of us, her arms spread open, one bird resting on each wrist, her eyes drilling down into us. I heard my mother intake a sharp breath, and she took a half-step backwards. This - coming face to face with Nocturnal - was exactly what she'd intended to avoid.

I lifted my chin and stepped forward. If Nocturnal wanted to talk, she could talk to me, and leave my mother be.

'My, my. What do we have here?' Nocturnal's gaze swept over us almost lazily. 'It's been a number of years since I've set foot on your world. Or perhaps it's been moments. One tends to lose track.'

I shrugged. 'Well, it's good to know my heroics were impressive enough to merit a personal appearance.'

'Ah, yes. Your heroics. Once again, the Key has been stolen, and a champion returns it to the Ebonmere.' She drew out the word _champion,_ and I knew she was mocking the term even as she used it. 'Now that the Ebonmere has been restored, you stand before me awaiting your accolades… a pat on your back, a kiss on your cheek.'

My expression remained stony. 'I'll pass on the kiss, thanks.'

'What you fail to realise,' she went on, as if I hadn't spoken, 'is that your actions were expected, and represent nothing more than the fulfilment of your agreement.'

'No, I get that,' I snapped, perhaps more hotly than was really safe. 'I know I'm a complete failure at being a Dunmer, but I do understand how the Daedra work. You set tasks, your servants complete them or are punished. It's simple. I know what you expected, and there you are, you've got your Key back. Expectations met.'

My mother inched closer to me. 'Melyna,' she said.

' _What?'_

She said nothing, only raised her eyebrows. She didn't really need to say anything; I knew what she was trying to tell me. _Stop talking back to the Daedric Prince._

I rolled my eyes and nodded, but Nocturnal, again, barely seemed to realise that I'd said a word. 'Don't mistake my tone for displeasure. After all, you've obediently performed your duties to the letter. But we both know this has little do to with loyalty and oaths and honour. It's about the reward… the prize.'

'Rewards and prizes are nice.' I folded my arms. 'But actually, I was trying to help my mother. And avenge my father.'

Nocturnal's gaze flicked across to my mother. 'Indeed. Strange, that you should think that such a worthy goal.'

'To a Daedra, maybe. But we mortals have this thing called love. It's kind of important.'

A long sigh – a whispering, scornful sound – came from the tight-lipped mouth. 'Love. How determined that mortal feeling seems to be to destroy my works on Nirn. Do you deny it, Karliah? Do you deny that your foolish love was responsible for the theft of my Key?'

My mother's gaze dropped to the ground, and she mumbled something incoherent.

'I didn't hear that, Karliah,' Nocturnal said coolly. 'Perhaps you would like to rethink whether it is wise for me to hear it.'

A short silence; then my mother raised her head. 'I admit that the feelings that Gallus and I had for each other distracted us from our duties and lowered his guard. I regret that the Key was stolen. But I do not regret what we shared – or what it led to.'

She turned to me on the last sentence, and smiled. A real, full smile. And I returned it with pleasure.

Nocturnal remained floating in front of us, her face impassive, giving nothing away. But I knew from the simple fact that she hadn't responded to my mother's words that she was not impressed.

'Whatever the case,' she said, looking back at me, 'fear not. You'll have your trinkets, your desire for power, your hunger for wealth. I bid you to drink deeply from the Ebonmere, mortal, for this is where the Agent of Nocturnal is born. You shall be given a power that befits your role as a Nightingale, and you shall be blessed with my luck to aid your thievery until you die – or until you are released from your oath. But that will only happen should you fail me, and I'm sure you'll be wiser than your parents in that regard, no?'

I clenched my fists and said nothing.

'The Oath has been made, the die has been cast, and your fate awaits you in the Evergloam.' Nocturnal raised her arms; the shrieking hurricane of birds rose around her again, and she began to sink back into the purple and black liquid that churned in the conduit at her feet. 'Farewell, Nightingale. See to it that the Key stays this time, won't you?'

For a second or two, I watched as she slipped away from view. Then a sudden burst of anger pulsed through me, and I took a step forward, toward the Ebonmere. _We're not done._

'Get back here, you bloody Daedric bitch!' I snapped.

My mother's head spun around to face me, and there was pure disbelief in her eyes. 'Melyna!'

'No.' I folded my arms across my chest. 'I don't care if she's a Daedric Prince. I've got things that need to be said, and she needs to hear them. So she can sodding well drag herself back up here.'

I'm not sure if I really expected it to work. Perhaps the reason I was so brazenly rude was to sting her into responding out of pride – and maybe that's exactly what happened. But whatever the reason, no sooner had the waters of the Ebonmere closed over Nocturnal's head than she rose up from them again, the black birds still perched on her arms, and her expression expectant. 'Well, Nightingale?'

I swallowed, drew in a breath, and looked her in the eye. 'You've talked plenty about rewarding me. What about my parents?'

Impatience flashed across her face. 'Your mother is a Nightingale again, as you are, and she shall receive the same gifts given to you.'

'And that's it? No reward for staying loyal to you over twenty five years, even though she had pretty much no reason to?' My hands clenched into fists. 'You've gone on and on about how she failed and whatever. But after you cast her out, she had no reason to put any effort into trying to set things right. She could have gone off to the other side of Tamriel and lived her own life and tried to move on. And did she? No. She spent twenty-five years on her own without forgetting about the Nightingales, or the Key, or you – even though she'd lost everything when you threw her out just because she didn't stop something she knew literally nothing about.'

The cold, pale eyes had narrowed to slits. 'I cast her out because she allowed herself to become distracted –'

'Oh, piss off. How did her being in love with my father make the slightest bit of difference? She _didn't know what Mercer was doing._ She didn't. Bloody. Know. If she hadn't been with my father, she still wouldn't have known. And it's not like she didn't try, right? When he went off to Snow Veil Sanctum, she got suspicious and went after him and hell, maybe if she'd been a bit quicker she could have stopped it from happening. Guess that's bad luck, isn't it? That's what happens when the Skeleton Key gets stolen. But _she_ didn't steal it.'

I paused only for breath before ploughing on. 'She's the reason I'm here. I mean, literally, she gave birth to me – but more than that, she's the reason I'm _here,_ wearing this armour. When you cast her out just for one mistake, she could have decided you weren't worth it, and I wouldn't have blamed her, but instead she made a plan to trap Mercer, she worked with me, she brought her only family into the Nightingales and she helped me get to that bastard Frey. Does she get _nothing_ for that? Just threats and scoldings for being _distracted?_ You know that I'm in love with someone too, right? Didn't distract me from shoving a sword through Mercer's gut.'

Nocturnal opened her mouth, but I kept going. 'And what about my father? I met him, you know, at the start of the Pilgrim's Path. He's been guarding it for twenty-five years, completely on his own, because all the others went mad when Mercer took the Key. Does he get nothing for that? Nothing at all?'

Out of breath, I stopped, glaring up at the Prince defiantly. She looked back for a few moments, then glanced at my mother.

'You seem to have failed to teach your daughter any manners, Karliah,' she said.

My mother shrugged helplessly. 'Well, to be fair… she _was_ raised by Khajiit.'

Nocturnal stared at us for a few seconds more – and laughed.

It was only a short, quick sound, and it rang in the air for only a heartbeat or two, but it was nonetheless a laugh. And it wasn't a sour, bitter laugh of the kind Mercer had made when I'd faced him in the Sanctum. It was real, genuine. Amused. I glanced at my mother, raising one eyebrow, but she simply shrugged again.

'What she lacks in respect, she makes up for in spirit,' Nocturnal said, a definite smile playing around her lips. 'If I hadn't wanted my agents to have fire and life in them, I would have turned to priests and knights to serve me, not thieves.'

She turned her gaze back to me. 'Well, Melyna. You believe I have not adequately rewarded your parents. What is it you would have me do?'

I quickly realised that this was a question I couldn't answer. 'I don't know. Just… anything. Something to show them that all that time my father spent guarding the Twilight Sepulchre even though there was nothing there to guard any more wasn't wasted. To show my mother that you actually care about how much she went through, putting everything right. To show both of them that you do actually realise how much they lost. How much all three of us lost.'

'Perhaps there is something, then, that can be done.' The amusement was still in Nocturnal's voice, just a trace of it. 'A reward for the three of you.'

She extended a hand towards one of the portals that lined the walls. It rippled in the centre, its surface shuddering, and a figure stumbled through, a translucent figure that glowed with a faint blue light.

My father pulled down his hood and his mask, and, seeing Nocturnal, bowed his head in respect. Then he glanced to the side – and his eyes fell on my mother.

'Oh, boy,' I murmured. And, grinning, I moved backwards to give them their space.

You know, Leo, I hear a lot about how kids get embarrassed when their parents act all tender in front of them. Apparently you don't want to see your parents show their feelings for each other. And honestly, I find that a little hard to wrap my head around. Maybe it's because I grew up without my parents around me, and without other children, too, to tell me what kids should and shouldn't be embarrassed by. I don't know. But in that moment, as I watched my mother and father breathe out each other's names and slowly, wonderingly cross the room to stand in front of each other, I didn't feel even the slightest trace of embarrassment. I _wanted_ to see this. I wanted to see my parents together at last.

'I feared I would never see you again,' my mother whispered – her voice was thick was emotion, just as it had been when I'd first spoken to her outside the Sanctum. 'I was afraid that with the Key gone, you'd become…'

'Lost,' he finished for her. 'I would have met that fate, if it weren't for our daughter.'

They both turned to look at me, and my father gestured for me to come over and join them. And I did so, not making any attempt to bite back my grin.

'Quite a surprise, learning I'd had a child for the past twenty-five years,' my father said, smiling. 'A pleasant one, though. And for that child to be the one who returned the Key… well, I could hardly be more proud. I think we did all right with this one, Karliah.'

My mother let out a breathless, slightly tearful laugh. ' _We_ didn't really play much part in raising her.'

'Still, I think you've inherited the best of both of us, Melyna. You were lucky enough to come away with your mother's good looks, for sure.' He frowned. 'Except the eyes, maybe.'

'Not entirely,' I said. 'If you look closely, there's a little sort of ring of purple around the pupils. According to my boyfriend, anyway.'

They both squinted at me for a moment, then nodded. 'A phenomenon called central heterochromia,' my father said appreciatively. 'Quite striking to look at. Though… did you say _boyfriend?'_

I shrugged. 'Another surprise for you, I guess. Not only do you have a daughter, she's also got a love life. His name's Marcurio, if you're interested. Imperial, like you. Dark, handsome, bit of a smart-arse.'

'Ah. I see.' A grin flickered across his face. 'It would appear the women of your family run true to type, Karliah.'

She laughed again, rolled her eyes, and pretended to hit him – a rather amusing thing to watch, since her hand passed right through him. And warmth flooded through me as I saw it, because never before had I seen her like this. _Playful_ wasn't a word I ever thought I'd associate with her. And yet just thirty seconds of being in my father's presence seemed to have lifted the weight of a world of sorrow from her back.

 _Gods' blood, but she must have loved him. She must still._

'Gallus.' Nocturnal's smooth voice broke in on my thoughts, and all three of us whipped around to face her – I could tell that my parents had forgotten that she was there, just as I had. 'Your daughter has made a request of me. She believes that you and Karliah deserve to be rewarded for your loyalty to me over the past years – even after Mercer's treachery.'

My father glanced at me, and then back at Nocturnal. 'All I did was my duty. As my Oath demanded.'

'Bullshit,' I muttered – very, very softly.

'Whatever the case, I have a proposition to make to you,' Nocturnal went on. 'Tell me, Gallus – how would you feel about serving me a while longer?'

He frowned. 'You mean… guarding the Sepulchre? I believed that you were calling me to the Evergloam.'

'Should you desire to pass to my realm now, you would be welcomed,' Nocturnal said. 'But should you wish it, I could allow you to remain here in the mortal world. You would be in this form, of course; even a Daedric Prince cannot reverse death. But a sentinel spirit such as yourself can still fight. And perhaps your skills could aid your daughter.'

She raised her arms, the birds on her wrists ruffling their wings. 'Melyna claims that I should acknowledge the time that the three of you lost. Perhaps this is a suitable way. I shall bind you to Melyna, and she shall be given the ability to summon you from the Evergloam to Nirn.'

My mother was staring in undisguised shock. 'Is that possible?'

'It's not unheard of,' my father remarked. 'I've read about how certain members of the Dark Brotherhood have the ability to summon the ghosts of their dead brothers and sisters to defend them in battle. And as for myself… I certainly won't down an opportunity to get to know my daughter. Though what the Guild will say when their former leader walks through the door of the Cistern in spirit form, I can't begin to guess.'

'Then it is decided,' Nocturnal said simply, and held out one hand. There was a flash of something that was either light or smoke or both at once, something that sparked into being in the air between myself and my father and wove between us, linking us together. I felt an odd sort of tug at my insides, as if someone had tied a thread around them and given it a pull to make sure it was secure. And then the smoke-light faded, and my father looked… perhaps a little less transparent, just a touch less _ghostly_ than he had before.

Nocturnal lowered her arms. 'It is done.'

'Thank you, my lady.' My father bowed his head in her direction. 'On behalf of all three of us.'

The black-winged swarm of birds surged up again from the Ebonmere, and Nocturnal began to sink out of sight a second time. This time, I made no attempt to hold her back. And in a second, she was gone, with only her parting words hanging in the air.

'Fair fortune, Nightingales. Eyes open. Walk with the shadows.'

The hiss of the end of the final word reverberated around the chamber before finally fading away. We stood in silence and stillness for a moment; then my mother reached out a tentative hand towards my father's arm. And this time, when she touched him, her hand did not pass through.

'How remarkable,' he murmured, his eyes fixed on the place where her fingers rested on his armour. 'It would appear that the binding spell anchored me a little more firmly into the physical world. That's rather propitious.'

I grinned. 'I might regret asking Nocturnal to do this if you keep up with the big words.'

'Allow me a little celebration, Melyna. This means I can turn pages and read books again.' He smiled broadly. 'And more importantly…'

He raised one hand, pressed it against the side of my mother's face, and kissed her. Not fiercely and desperately, like I'd kissed Marcurio in the Bee and Barb the day before, but with a soft tenderness, as if this kiss contained all the soothing words he'd need to comfort her after her twenty-five years of grieving for him.

Then he turned to me and held out his hand. And I didn't hesitate before running to them both, letting them each throw one arm around me. I held tightly to both of them, screwing my eyes shut and biting my lip because never, never had I truly believed this could happen, that I could ever be held by both my parents, that I would ever feel the comfort of just being close to the people I shared blood with. When I'd learned of my father's identity, I'd been convinced it would never happen, that it never could.

But I'd been wrong. His touch was strange, somehow, a little colder than it should have been, perhaps. It was easy to tell that he was something not completely of this world. And yet he was still _there._

 _Mercer,_ I thought, smirking. _You tried to tear us apart. You killed my father and forced my mother to run, forced her to give me up. Then you tried to kill me. You tried so hard to take everything from us – and instead, you gave us everything. By trying to tear us apart, you only brought us back together. How about that, Mercer gods-damn Frey? Looks like we won._

I felt a shudder run through my mother's body. 'I would never have expected…'

'For the Lady to show kindness?' My father shook his head. 'That's Nocturnal's way. Mystery is part of her nature; she acts as she chooses, and we mortals can never know what her motives really are. Those who serve her and defend her must accept that. And right now… I find it very easy to accept.'

'So what now?' I asked.

My mother drew in a long, steady breath.

'Now,' she said, 'we go home.'

* * *

And we did.

It was surprising, really, how quickly the Guild got used to the change. Losing their leader. Having the false traitor welcomed back as a trusted member. Having their dead former Guildmaster turn up again, blue and glowing. Brynjolf stared blankly for about twenty seconds solid, stammered out a greeting, then told us to explain later. Vex was suspicious until the moment my father chuckled and said that she was, 'still as contumelious as ever,' at which point she snorted, said that 'only Gallus used words like that,' and raised no further objections. Delvin glanced up at my father's greeting, muttered something about being so used to weird crap that he wasn't even surprised anymore, and turned his attention back to his mead.

The other Guild members soon got fairly used to having a ghost hanging around the Cistern. Brynjolf, perhaps, was the most grateful for his presence. After a brief discussion, it was agreed that I would be groomed to take on the Guild's leadership. It would take years of training and practice, but the senior members were in unanimous agreement – whether because they thought I deserved it, because they were grateful to me for stopping Mercer or because they thought I might have inherited my father's knack for leadership, I can't say. For some years, Brynjolf acted as an unofficial Guildmaster, despite his distaste for the role – and that was where having my father around to shoulder a share of the work came in handy.

We rebuilt, all of us together. We sold the Eyes of the Falmer, my father dredged up old contacts and shared his tips, and slowly but surely, we refilled the vault that Mercer had emptied, made the Thieves Guild a name to be feared and respected once again. By the time Tonilia had to knock together a set of the Guildmaster's leathers for me, all of Skyrim knew that nothing was beyond the reach of the band of brothers and sisters who dwelt beneath Riften.

As for my more immediate family… Nothing could get us back the twenty five years we'd lost to Mercer's treachery. But we had been given new time, and that we enough. There was time for me to sit at a table in the Flagon with both of them, telling them the tales of my life with the Khajiit caravan and my travels in Elsweyr and Morrowind and Cyrodiil. There was time for my mother and I to stand together at the archery targets, exchanging the tricks we'd learned over the years. There was time for my father to show me some of the books he'd studied and most enjoyed back when he was alive, and for me to find that they weren't as boring as I'd expected.

There was time for me to come to know my parents and for them to come to know their daughter. And there'll be plenty more time in the future. My father may come to this world for as long as I'm living in it, and I've no intention of kicking the bucket any time soon. My mother and I are Dunmer – barring accidents, we each have a few centuries in us yet. We'll make the most of that time. Pockets will be picked, safeboxes will be cracked open, and battles will be fought (and won, obviously.)

As for me and Marcurio… well, he met with parental approval. Some members of the Guild made bets that we wouldn't last more than a month. They're still grumbling about their lost money three years later. Wasn't too long before Marcurio got drunk enough to propose to me. And then you turned up on the scene, Leonardo. I won't deny that you were an accident. But you were one hell of a happy accident.

So that's it. That's the big story. Our crazy, messed up family of dark, handsome, smartass Imperials (one of them a ghost) and Dunmer women with odd-coloured eyes who can shoot a dragonfly on the wing. And you, of course, the newest little half-blood. We slapped an Imperial name on your just because we liked it, but you look like a Dunmer, mostly. Just a few traces of the human blood in you, as sometimes happens. You have your father's eyes. And you're going to break a few hearts when you're older, I'll bet good coin on that.

And Ahkari is still my family, of course. That'll never change. I introduced her to my blood parents, and they thanked her for raising me so well for so long, and she of course went and shared all kinds of embarrassing stories of my childhood with them. Ahkari will always be my mother , just as much as my birth mother. It's strange, having two people who are both my mothers, but since my father's a ghost and I'm technically a dragon, I don't think strangeness is really alien to this family.

Ah, yes. The dragon thing. That's the one part of the story left to tell. Possibly the craziest, maddest part of the whole damn tale.

My inkwell's almost running dry, kiddo, but there's just enough left for me to give you the final piece.

* * *

'This is your own fault, you know.'

I pounded through the golden plains grass, my mother's bow snug in my hand, my Guildmaster's leathers warm and comfortable, the stiff leather having long since moulded to my shape. I hurdled a rock in a single bound and twisted my head around to glare at my father, who ran alongside me with the kind of effortless, untiring lope that only a ghost can really manage.

'This is _your_ fault, and you know it,' I snapped. 'Some father you are, letting the guards get the jump on me.'

'And some thief you are to not be keeping a better eye out! If you forget the most basic safety rules of being a thief, I'll let you get caught by the guards. Next time, you'll know better.'

I huffed loudly. 'I wasn't keeping watch because I thought you were doing it for me. How did you know that Balgruuf wasn't going to decide to have me executed?'

'If that had happened, I'd have helped you escape. But it didn't. In fact, he was rather generous, offering you a pardon in exchange for a service.'

'Two services, dad,' I said shortly. 'Delving into that Bleak Falls Barrow place – I was fine with that. Dungeon crawls have never bothered me, and I'd pick that over a jail sentence any day. But this? One task, the Jarl said. One task for Whiterun, and I'll waive your prison sentence and you'll be free to go. And then suddenly some guard comes running, spinning stories about how there's a sodding great dragon at the watchtower, and I get roped into helping fight it.'

He grinned. 'It's rather exciting, don't you think?'

'Screw exciting! I didn't finish the heist, which was the whole reason we were in Whiterun in the first place, and I'm going to be late home to Riften – if I don't get myself scorched to a crisp first, of course. You are explaining things to Marcurio if I get killed, you realise?'

'Look on the bright side,' my father said lightly. 'You've more experience with fighting dragons than anyone else here.'

'I did not fight that dragon at Helen. I ran away from it, flailing like a headless chicken. Several times. With my clothes on fire.'

We had almost reached the Western Watchtower, where it stood ten minutes' journey away from Whiterun – or used to. As we approached, it became clear that vast sections of the structure had been torn away, the rocks and bricks strewn across the ground. Smoke was still rising from the rubble. With a shudder, I thought of the destruction that the dragon had unleashed at Helgen, and of how an entire town had been razed to the ground in only a few minutes. What chance did a small troupe of guards, one housecarl, a thief and a sentinel spirit have?

Up ahead of us, Irileth – housecarl to the Jarl of Whiterun, a Dunmer like myself, and the leader of the motley band of dragon-fighters that Jarl Balgruuf had assembled – raised one hand, signalling for the rest of us to stop. It took me a while to draw level with her; I had dropped to the back of the party while we ran, so as to talk with my father without arousing suspicion. One ability that Nocturnal had bestowed upon him was that he could render himself invisible and inaudible to any he didn't wish to see him, so my companions had no idea that there was a spectre in their company. But all the ghostly abilities in the world wouldn't fail to arouse suspicion if I was heard talking with someone who simply wasn't there.

Even an invisible sword, though, would damage a dragon's scales. Frustrated as I might be with my father, I was glad he was there with me.

'No sign of our dragon, but it sure looks like he's been here.' Irileth crouched behind a rock, poking only half her face over the rim. 'I know it looks bad, but we've got to figure out what happened. And if that dragon is still skulking around somewhere.'

'I'd have thought dragons would be too big to skulk,' I remarked.

Irileth shot me a venomous glance, then waved her hand towards her guards. 'Spread out and look for survivors. We need to know what we're dealing with. You, thief – you stay where I can see you.'

She pulled her blade free and marched forwards toward the tower. Muttering a few Ta'agra curses, I followed, keeping at her heels with my bow loaded and my eyes trained on the sky.

'There is absolutely nothing keeping me from turning around and strolling right out of here,' I muttered to my father under my breath.

'I'd stop you if you tried, actually,' he said. 'These people need your help.'

'Stop lying to me, dad. I know you really just want to see a dragon.'

'Guilty as charged. But honestly, Melyna, these creatures have barely been seen in centuries! The chance to study one up close –'

'We're killing it, not stopping to take notes on it.'

He shook his head, sighting theatrically. 'How you wound me, Melyna. I am truly disconsolate.'

'Dad, please shove your fancy words up a mammoth's backside.'

'If you say so. Incidentally, the dragon is now approaching from the east.'

I spun around, drawing back my bowstring and lifting my weapon towards the sky. And indeed, there was the dragon, the vast wings spread, the spiny neck extended, the mouth already open and glinting with flame.

'Irileth!' I roared.

The housecarl turned, followed my line of sight, and spat out a soft oath. 'Gods preserve us. Men, eyes on the eastern sky! Find cover, and make every arrow count.'

I turned on the spot, seeking a defensible position, and my eyes fell on the smoking watchtower. Between it and me was a short dash across open ground, and the dragon was fast approaching – but I could make it. I would make it.

As I sprinted towards the tower entrance, the thumping of wingbeats grew from faint to loud to deafening, and a sudden wind pushed against my back. A shadow sprawled across the grass around me, the shape of a horned head and wings outstretched. I leaped the last few metres, skidding inside the tower entrance and throwing myself to the side and against the wall. A jet of flame followed me in, missing me by inches, and I felt the bare skin on my face and neck smart in the heat.

'You're planning to get to high ground, I take it.' My father had drawn his sword, a ghostly mirror image of the blade I carried at my own hip. 'I think I'll be of more use down here; I'm the only one that fire can't hurt.'

I nodded quickly. 'Sounds like a plan. I'll try sniping from the top of the tower, see if I can get the eyes or the mouth.'

'Good.' He hesitated, then stretched out a hand and rested it on my arm. 'Be careful, Melyna.'

I snorted. 'Careful's boring, but I'll try my best.'

A roar ripped through the air, a sound so fierce and so simply _loud_ that the ground beneath my feet trembled ever so slightly. A gasp escaped me as pain lanced through my ears. This beast, I thought grimly, had to die before it deafened me.

So I spun around and raced up the tower steps two at a time, and my father marched back out into the open. There were a great many advantages to having him on my side, but perhaps the greatest was that I didn't need to worry about him getting killed. I, however, had only my leathers, my skills and the blessings of Nocturnal to protect me, so when I reached the top of the tower, I quickly threw myself against the wall, ducking out of sight.

Though my ears were still ringing, it was easy to tell where the dragon had gone. The sound of wingbeats had been replaced by a low rumbling growl, the clash of metal against scales and the swift swish and snap of vast toothed jaws. The beast was on the ground, a short distance from the foot of the tower, making life miserable for the guards facing it.

I readied my bow and slowly raised my head above the parapet. My poor beleaguered ears had been right – there was the dragon, snapping at a trio of guards who had been brave enough or mad enough to stroll right up to it and try to hack at its nose. As I watched, it lashed out with one wing, sending a guard sprawling onto his back, and drew back its head to strike a likely lethal blow – but then there was a flash of blue and the dragon was drawing back, screeching, blood dripping from a wound along its nose that had opened as if from nowhere.

'Nice one, dad,' I muttered, and pulled my bowstring back a little further. If the dragon just turned its head a little more, I might have a clear shot. _If you're in doubt about a creature's weak point,_ my mother had once told me, _always go for the eye._ Obvious advice, but damn good all the same.

So when the dragon tilted its head, and one small slitted eye came into view, I sucked in a breath, gauged the distance and the wind, and sent a silent prayer in the general direction of Evergloam. _Nocturnal, if you're watching, then don't you dare let me mess this one up._

I released the arrow. It snapped across the distance between me and the dragon –

And hit it, for the Gods' sakes, about one inch to the right of its eye. One measly inch.

The horned head snapped up as the arrow bounced off the thick coating of scales. The eye I had come close to shooting out of existence locked onto me, and the lips curled back, revealing the rows of teeth.

'Thanks, Nocturnal,' I growled.

The dragon threw out its wings and pumped them down, sending the guards flying from the sudden burst of wind. Something that huge should not be able to fly, but fly it did, covering the distance between the ground and the tower in three heavy pounds of the bat-like wings. I stumbled back, dropping my bow – it would be useless at close range – and reaching for my sword, my father's sword, the sword I'd killed Mercer with.

The dragon's back feet thumped down on the parapet with enough force to make the structure shake, the clawed wings sweeping forward to hold the beast in place. It arched its neck, gazing down at me, and I realised with shock that I understood what was on its face. Scorn, contempt, amusement – the things you see on the face of someone who knows he's won the battle he's fighting.

And yes, a single burst of flame would scorch the life from me. Yes, those fangs could punch right through my leathers and into my heart. But Mercer Frey had thought he'd won, too, and he'd been wrong.

As the dragon opened its mouth, I reached. Not with my body, but with whatever part of me it was that was bound to Nocturnal. I reached for the power, found it, and unleashed it.

And the dragon screamed.

Hearing a monster like that scream, literally _scream,_ is the most bloodcurdling and most satisfying thing. I'm no hero, Leo, you should know that by now, so it won't surprise you that I relished hearing it, hearing this force of destruction brought low by me, by what I could do. Because what I was doing was sending a tendril of pure Daedric energy into the very core of the dragon's soul, and sucking the life from it. The blood quickened in my veins, my head felt clearer, my limbs stronger, and the dragon was floundering like a bird in a net, trying to pull away but unable to move.

The ability of the Nightingale Agent of Strife is a damn powerful one.

And as the dragon struggled and howled, I rushed forwards, blade bared and ready. I ducked under the flailing jaws, lunged upwards, and plunged the sword as far as I could into the depths of that screeching mouth. Blood splattered onto my wrists, hot and wet enough to be felt through my leathers, but I didn't withdraw my blade. I pushed harder. And harder still, until the hilt of the sword was pressed against the roof of the creature's mouth and I knew for certain that the blade had gone right up into the creature's brain.

Then I tugged it free and leaped back, just in time to see the dragon topple backwards and fall away from the tower, leaving a trail of blood droplets in the air for a moment, before they too dropped out of sight.

I stood there for a moment, shaking my arms in an attempt to clear some of the dragon blood from them, and taking long, deep gulps of air. Then I sheathed my sword and set off down the tower steps.

The guards were waiting at the bottom of course, some cheering and clapping, others sitting on the boulders and torn stone, either nursing their wounds or just staring dead ahead in apparent sheer disbelief that it was over. In a flash of blue, my father was at my side, grasping my arm, and I quickly shook my head. 'It's all right, dad. It's not my blood.'

He released me, with a heavy huff of relief. 'That was magnificent, Melyna.'

I couldn't stop myself from grinning. 'I'm pretty awesome, aren't I?'

'On your good days.' My father sheathed his sword and rubbed his hands together. 'Now, I'm going to take a look at that dragon. Do you think we could take some samples of the blood and the scales?'

He hurried off in the direction of the corpse, and, rolling my eyes, I followed. I wonder how different things might have been if I'd told him there was no time and taken my leave there and then, but it's not much use wondering, because I didn't. I was flushed with my success, and suddenly in a very good mood. This was going to make a fine story to share with the Guild over drinks, and my annoyance had pretty much faded.

So I approached the dragon's limp brown form. And as I neared it, it began to burn.

My father reeled back with a sharp cry, throwing out an arm to stop me from coming any nearer. For a few seconds, the shimmering blue of his outline was shot through with gold as every scale, every spike, every inch of skin on the dragon's form was consumed by fire. Pieces of flesh rose into the air, glittering with flame for a few instants before vanishing.

And then from the depths of the fire came light, strands of it, glistening white tendrils. They floated upwards from the bare skeleton that was all that was left of the dragon's body, wove around each other – and then coursed in my direction.

I yelped and leaped away, but they simply turned and kept flowing towards me. And then the light struck me, and surrounded me, and the world vanished in a blur of whiteness and suddenly my blood was burning. There was a roaring in my ears and a sudden fury fogging every corner of my mind, and I felt that if my body didn't feel completely frozen I would use it to rip the entire world apart with my bare hands –

And then, a name. It wasn't a voice in my mind. It was just suddenly something I knew, a piece of knowledge that demanded I listen to it.

 _Mirmulnir._

It was the dragon's name. That, too, I knew without knowing how.

And then it was gone. The rage was gone, the pain in my bones was gone, the light was gone, and I was staggering backwards, sucking in deep, desperate gulps of air. I became aware of two things: firstly, that Irileth and the guards were standing around me in an arc, staring, and secondly, that my father had his hand on my arm again, and was repeatedly whispering my name.

'I'm fine,' I told him, and then repeated it more loudly, so that none of the guards thought I was talking to myself. 'Though I would like to know what the heck just happened.'

'You're Dragonborn.'

It was one of the guards who said it, his voice blank with shock.

I blinked a few times, running this statement through my mind, and thinking of my father's books of ancient legends, and the songs I'd heard the bards singing in the taverns.

'Well,' I said. 'Shit.'

* * *

So there it is. There's the final secret, the last piece of the puzzle that's me. For some reason, Akatosh thought I'd be good at world-saving, and gave me a dragon's soul. I can't say I don't question his judgement.

I'm not going into the details of the whole quest, Leo. Someday, I'll tell you everything. You'll hear it a hundred times from the minstrels, anyway, and this was never meant to be the Dragonborn's story. It was meant to be my story, the story of my family, not the story of my great and inescapable destiny. The woman the world knows as Dragonborn marched through her quest with a scowl on her face, muttering to anyone who'd listen that she was the worst possible choice. I'm sure there were a lot of strapping Nord warriors who could have taken on the role. But for whatever reason, the Divines chose me for it… and maybe it was because they knew I wouldn't quit. Stubborn thing that I am, I was too proud to let Alduin beat me. And in the end, he didn't beat me.

Maybe Akatosh wanted someone who wouldn't bask in the glory, or try to use their fame. And Maker knows I didn't. The moment it was finished, I vanished back into the sewers. A dragon's soul I may have, but I also have a family, and I belong with them.

I am the Dragonborn, but that's only one part of me. I am a thief of the Guild. I am Guildmaster. I am a Nightingale of Nocturnal. I am a Dunmer with Imperial blood, raised by Khajiit. I am the daughter of Karliah and Gallus. I am Marcurio's wife.

And most important of all, I am your mother.

Look at you. You've woken up and you're screaming your head off like the end of the world is coming. Well, the story's over, so I'm on my way. Let me just finish this last little bit and set down my quill, though I'll have to write fast, because I can never leave you to cry for long.

I am your mother, Leonardo. And I might screw up, and I might let you down and I will definitely drive you crazy, but I will always, always be there for you.

That's a promise.

* * *

 _END_


End file.
